


To Reach a Breaking Point

by LollipopCop



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 03, Rimming, Romance, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollipopCop/pseuds/LollipopCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an adrenaline-filled chase, Sherlock and John can't contain themselves and kiss in an alley. However, John regrets it. Sherlock doesn't know if he should act like it never happened, try to kiss John again, or confront him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been feeling crappy about my writing lately and the lack of feedback my one-shots have been getting, but moping about it won't do anything, so I'm pushing myself to write this.  
> By the way, I need to say this now: while Sherlock will be pining and frustrated with John, John is NOT the bad guy here. He's just going through some shit. More details later :P Just wanted to make it clear that I don't think John's an ass or anything. I love the character.

Sherlock took a deep breath in an effort to quell his nerves, but inhaling deeply did nothing but allow the scent of John’s hair to fill his nose. Sherlock swallowed. Bad idea. He shifted in the car seat, clasping his hands together.

John looked back at him briefly. “You okay?” he asked.

“Of course,” Sherlock said sharply.

That made John look irritated, but he said nothing and turned his head back around to look out the window across the street. They were huddled together in a cab on a stakeout, parked right across the street from the building where drug smugglers were supposed to enter in approximately six minutes. If they showed up at this location, which Sherlock was sure they would, he and John were to catch them and alert Lestrade’s team. There were two buildings they thought the smugglers would probably show up at, so Lestrade’s team was currently set up near the other building a few streets away. Sherlock usually stayed away from simple cases like this, but it was the first call he had gotten from Lestrade since John’s return to Baker Street, and any excuse to spend time with John was not to be wasted. He also wanted to remind John of old times and how good they had it, and he thought a case would be perfect, no matter how ordinary.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had not anticipated that they would have to hide in the backseat of a car, nor did he foresee just how _cold_ the night air would be in a vehicle without the heating on. They were pressed against each other for warmth, the left side of Sherlock’s body against John’s right. It wasn’t that John’s touch was unwelcome, it was the opposite. John's warm side against him was becoming too much to ignore for his traitorous heart.

Sherlock sighed, his breath visible in the cold air of the taxi. He wished these smugglers would just hurry up and be stupid so they could get caught.

“You cold?” John asked, eyes still on the building across the street.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, keeping his tone neutral. He could feel a little kick in his chest with each heartbeat. It had been awhile since he was this close to John. A couple years ago, he would have been able to ignore his urges, but not anymore. He couldn’t ignore them, but he could try to suppress them. He had to. He was 83% sure John didn’t want him, and Sherlock could not blame him.

Sherlock really was cold, though, even through his thick coat and scarf. A shiver ran through his body. Because they were touching, John felt it. He inched a little closer to Sherlock, muscular thigh now pressing against Sherlock’s. “How are you so cold with that great bloody coat?” he asked amusedly.

“It’s March; it’s perfectly normal to be cold during a winter night.”

“If you had some more meat on your bones, your body might be able to retain heat,” John said, looking at him with a crooked smirk.

“I’m in no mood for your nagging,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You act as if I never eat. It’s true that I eat less often on a case because, as I’ve told you, digestion slows me down, but I eat a healthy amount of food on a regular day. Honestly, John, this goes along with your assumption that I never sleep, which is also false when there isn’t a case.”

“Okay, okay,” John held his hands up, “I wasn’t asking for a lecture on your daily habits.”

“You started it,” Sherlock sniffed.

John nudged Sherlock’s knee. “Git.”

Sherlock looked past John at the building. He couldn’t allow John’s proximity to be a distraction. The case may have been no more than a four, but it was still a case. He shivered again. “Will these idiots just hurry up?” he grumbled.

“How much longer do you think we’ll wait?”

“I originally thought they would arrive four minutes from now, but I may have to adjust my estimation.”

“They could show up where Lestrade is.”

“And I say they will show up here,” he said stubbornly.

“Lighten up,” John said, not unkindly. “This is your first stakeout since, when?”

“You know I never liked this part, much. I’ve always preferred the chase.”

“I could go for a chase,” John sighed. “It would get our blood pumping, make us warm.”

It’s a testament to how much Sherlock’s mind had betrayed him lately, since an image of them having sex in this cab invaded his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think of that here, although it would certainly warm them up considerably. The heat from their bodies would fog up the windows, their movements would rock the vehicle.

Sherlock tensed when John’s hand gripped his knee. “Sure you’re okay?” John asked. “You’ve been acting a little weird tonight. Well,” he snorted, “weirder than usual.”

Sherlock felt heat creep up his throat from the image that appeared in his head and John’s very warm, solid, and real hand on his body.

“I’m fine,” he said, looking down at John with a gaze he hoped was firm. But John looked right back at him, the concern in his eyes morphing into something harder, more intense. The heat on Sherlock’s neck was now traveling to his face.

But maybe there was a god after all, because the sight of the smugglers showing up exactly on time saved him from grabbing John and kissing him senseless. “John!”

John’s head snapped to the side, seeing the criminals. “Let’s go,” he smiled dangerously.

* * *

Twenty minutes and four handcuffed criminals later, Sherlock was giddy with adrenaline.

Lestrade looked exasperated, but pleased. “Off you go, you two. Come in tomorrow for the paperwork, as usual.”

Sherlock hadn’t realized how much he craved a good chase again. The buffoons tried to get away, but didn’t get farther than four blocks. Sherlock’s limbs were burning with exertion and his chest felt tight from lack of oxygen, but he felt amazing.

Going by the look of elation of John’s face, he enjoyed this, too.

“Let’s walk home, John,” he smiled and began to stride down the pavement.

“What happened to being cold?” John asked, walking close to him and face red from running.

“That was before.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled. “It’s a lovely night. I’ll race you back to Baker Street if you’re cold.”

John laughed loudly, “Sherlock, we can’t race all the way home!”

“Why? It isn’t far.”

“We’ll wind up knocking someone over,” John said.

“It’s two in the morning. As you can see, barely anyone is outside.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You just know you can’t beat me, old man.” God, this felt so good. It felt so natural. This was the most comfortable he felt with John since before the Fall. He knew a case was a good idea.

“Oi!” John smacked his arm. “Watch it with the ‘old man’ crap. You’re not much younger.”

“Young enough to beat you.”

John shook his head, a smile on his face. “All right, madman, you’re on.”

Sherlock stopped walking and looked at the street sign. “Seven blocks? Oh, this won’t be difficult. On the count of three?”

“Sure,” John said, a smug look on his face.

Why was he smug? “One--”

John immediately took off.

After a moment of standing there, mouth agape in shock, Sherlock snapped out of it and ran. “John! That’s against the rules!”

John laughed over his shoulder.

Mycroft was right; they really were like children.

Sherlock’s long legs caught up with John quickly. His side was beginning to hurt from running too much in a short amount of time. He needed a shortcut. Sherlock decided to dart into an alley.

“Oh, no you don’t!” he heard John shout, and then he heard footsteps behind him, echoing in the alley. John tried to get past him, but the alleyway was too narrow and John crashed into Sherlock, sending them both to the ground.

They landed to the ground hard on their fronts, John’s left leg tangling with his, and they lay there, side by side, panting.

Sherlock turned his face toward John, John met his gaze, and they burst into laughter.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” John giggled through his attempt to catch his breath.

“It would be better if this did not leave this alley,” Sherlock said, a bright smile taking over his face.

“Absolutely.” John reached out and stroked Sherlock’s cheekbone with his thumb.

Sherlock looked at him in confusion, but then he saw blood on John’s thumb.

“You got cut,” John said unhelpfully. “Did a rock cut you or something?”

Now that he mentioned it, Sherlock’s face did sting a little.

“Sit up,” John told him.

Sherlock did, and John sat on his knees. He stroked Sherlock’s cheekbone a second time, and suddenly Sherlock felt far too hot.

“Did you hurt anything else?” John asked, voice a little husky.

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said blankly, ignoring the ache in his knees from taking such a hard tumble.

John’s hand fully cupped his face, chest still heaving from running. “Yeah? You sure?”

“Yes,” he said, gulping. His nerves were singing with adrenaline and he loved the feeling of John’s hand on his face, so much so he grabbed John’s wrist to keep him in place. He shouldn’t have, but his body was being taken over by hormones beyond his control, and John always looked so divine after a chase, his hair mussed from the wind.

Sherlock realized his chest was heaving, too. Their breaths were loud in the night, heightened by the echoes the alley created. Something in John’s eyes shifted, and his unblinking gaze became heated. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, but he knew what he _wanted_ to do. His impulses were becoming harder to ignore.

John kept his hand on Sherlock’s face, staring right into Sherlock’s eyes. John’s eyes darted to his lips, his hand shifted to wrap lightly around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and in the blink of an eye his mouth crashed against Sherlock’s. Sherlock inhaled through his nose and he instinctively kissed back as well as he knew how, hands flying up to grip the lapels of John’s jacket, grounding him back to earth. John’s lips were dry and cold, but his tongue (oh god, his tongue!) was warm and wet, and soon they weren’t exactly kissing as much as sucking and biting at each other’s mouths, chemicals and years of tension rendering them desperate. It wasn’t exactly how Sherlock thought kissing John would go, but he had no complaints at the moment.

Did John really want him? What changed his mind? Sherlock was incapable of thinking straight. How could he think straight with John kissing him?

Heart beating fast, Sherlock needed to get closer to John. Now that they were finally kissing, he wanted to wrap himself around John and never let go. They broke apart for air and Sherlock used this as an opportunity to lean his body against John, the angle a little awkward considering they were both half-sitting on the ground. But John, bless him, knew what to do. John always knew what to do.

Quick like a panther, his grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and pinned him down on the ground, kissing him furiously. He lifted his head, they stared at each other with glassy eyes and parted lips, and then John moved to suck Sherlock’s neck, right below his ear.

Sherlock gasped and held John’s head. It hurt, but it felt so good, and his cock started tingling. Blood coursing hotly through his veins, he started to unknowingly grind his hips against John’s, his primal instincts shutting off every thought in his brain.

John, thank the lord, ground his hips with Sherlock, his own hardening bulge coming to contact with Sherlock’s erection. _Yes, yes, John, finally._ “John,” he groaned.

John kissed him on the mouth, sucking his bottom lip, their cocks sliding past each other in a quick rhythm. Sherlock was fully hard now, either from inexperience or the fact that it was with _John_ or both, and he grunted into the kiss, hands holding onto John’s broad shoulders, pleasure consuming his groin. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s waist and rocked his hips, the change in angle making them both groan.

John grabbed his hair and pulled. Sherlock did not expect that to make his cock jolt and a loud howl come from his throat.

“Hey!”

They broke apart and John scrambled to his feet, looking at the figure at the end of the alley.

“Something wrong in there?” the voice called.

John remained silent, save for his heavy breathing, and Sherlock saw when it happened. He saw when the lust left John’s eyes and was replaced with realization, then horror, and then regret.

“Shit!” John hissed.

The man at the end of the alley must have gotten the idea, because his eyes widened and he ran away.

Great.

Sherlock stood up slowly, frustrated and aroused, but mainly concerned. He didn’t like the look on John’s face. He felt anxiety crawl up the back of his neck. He looked down at his erection, shame washing over him.

He pulled his coat around himself. “John?”

John wouldn’t look at him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his face. “Sherlock, let’s go home.”

“John…” He trailed off.

John cleared his throat, eyes downcast. “Like you said: it would be better if this didn’t leave the alley, yeah?” John didn’t even attempt to make his tone casual. He sounded cold.

An invisible hand squeezed Sherlock’s heart. “But, John--”

“Home,” John said sternly.

But Sherlock couldn’t. He couldn’t go home with John and pretend this never happened. “Actually, I think I’ll take a walk,” he said woodenly, looking down at his feet. “I, um, still feel the adrenaline rush.”

“Okay,” John said, almost relieved. “Erm, see you back at the flat.” He practically fled from the alley.

Sherlock stood there in the darkness. No longer feeling any adrenaline, he shivered from the cold. What had gone wrong? If John didn’t want him, why did he initiate? Sherlock slumped against the wall and slid down to the ground, knees drawn up to his chest. His throat felt tight. What the hell just happened?

More importantly, how the hell did John expect him to forget about that and move on? He couldn’t. How could anyone forget about kissing their beloved? He loved John for years. Literally. He watched John marry a fucking psychopath because he thought it would make John happy. He would do anything to make John happy.

He looked up at the black sky.

But kissing him didn’t make John happy. It made him closed-off. He didn’t want to upset John. He didn’t want John to leave again. Maybe he should act like he forgot about it. It might be better for their friendship. He felt sick in the stomach. That’s what he would have to do, wasn’t it? He had to indulge John and act like one of his biggest fantasies didn’t come true. Sherlock’s hand shook, so he folded his arms and sank into his coat.

He thought kissing John would be a dream, but now it felt like one of the worst things to ever happen to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how long this will be.  
> Please, if you have any feedback, I would love to hear it.


	2. Trying to Make Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't just hide in his room forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how many kudos and comments the first chapter got! That's the most I've ever gotten for a first chapter! Thank you all SO MUCH. You made me feel a lot better :)  
> Ooo, the angst is juicy in this story. But don't worry, friends: it shall not be permanent.

Sherlock sat in the alley for what felt like a couple of hours, but he wasn't actually sure how long he was there. He didn't bother looking at his phone for the time. He knew enough time passed for his erection to have softened completely, which was highly unpleasant, considering he had been on the brink of coming in his pants. Thinking about how close he had been made him uneasy. He didn’t think his first time with John would end that badly (not that he seriously thought he would ever get there with John). Sherlock sat there because didn’t have anything to do tomorrow, so there was no reason to worry about sleep. He could stay out there all night and sleep in this very spot, if he wanted. It’s not like anyone would be wondering where he was. It’s not like he would be missed for a few hours.

Sherlock acknowledged he may have been a tad dramatic, but no one was around to call him out for it, so he sat and brooded and watched each of the exhalations from his nose form into fog in the winter air. When the cold air became unbearable, he stood, his legs stiff and knees aching, and walked to Baker Street. His fingers were numb and the tips of his ears and nose were freezing. The air stung his face as he walked. Staying outside was a bad idea. He entered the flat and saw the only light was from a lamp John left on. John, himself, must have gone to his room and went to bed, because the flat was silent. Sherlock was glad he didn't have to face John now. Everything was too raw. He hung up his coat and decided to get in the shower, feeling dirty from the day and from lying on the dirty ground of the alley. He looked forward to warming up in the shower.

He hissed when the hot water hit his skin, his body giving a shake of relief and satisfaction. He washed himself in a haze, his chest heavy. He finished rinsing his hair and stood there, the water running down his body.  He looked down and saw John’s shampoo next to his. What was he going to do? They lived together. They were never just casual flatmates; their lives became intertwined on day one. If he acted like it didn’t happen, it would hang over them. Would it pass eventually?

Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when his dick decided to twitch. Now that he wasn’t cold anymore, his body seemed to remember there was unfinished business to do.

“Stop,” he glared at his penis. He had enough betrayal by his body for one night. He could ignore it, but that proved it be an achy inconvenience. However, contrary to his physical state, he was in no mood to do anything about that now. He usually waited until John wasn’t home to do that, anyway, because he tended to make a little noise.

Sherlock wondered if he made any noise with John. He was pretty out of it, so it was possible. That was probably how that man knew there were people in the alley. Damn that man. He ruined everything. But then, John could have had the same reaction after they climaxed. Sherlock couldn’t know for sure. He was just looking for someone to blame, so he blamed the stranger.

When the water turned icy he shut off the water, and got out of the shower. He climbed into bed, not bothering with any pants or sleepwear, and buried himself into the blankets. The clock on his bedside table read 4:03 a.m. Interesting.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. How was he going to face tomorrow? Well, technically it was tomorrow, but his brain did not feel like dealing with technicalities. John had work in the morning, so maybe Sherlock could stay in his room until John left. But, he couldn't do that for the rest of their lives.

To Sherlock’s surprise, his eyes would not stay open. He always got tired after a case, but the added emotional strain completely drained him. He closed his eyes with the dread of tomorrow on his shoulders.

* * *

 

When Sherlock woke up, it there was bright sunshine filling his room. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and yawned. He looked at the clock: 10:18. John’s shift started more than three hours ago. Sherlock let out a small sigh of relief, and he immediately felt awful for that. No matter. He had some time--six hours and forty-two minutes, to be exact--to get his thoughts together. He put on pants and his red dressing gown, not bothering to tie it or even attempt to tame his curls, which were wild from sleep. After brushing his teeth, he padded into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. John was sitting at the table.

“John, what are you doing here?” he almost yelled, unable to contain his shock.

John raised an eyebrow, munching on toast, then swallowed. “I live here.”

“You have work.”

“It’s Sunday, Sherlock,” John said, almost in amusement, but strained.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, then he quickly snapped his mouth shut. Damn. Was his mind really that out of sorts that he couldn’t remember the day of the week? What an idiot he was.

“So, it is,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

The slight humor to the situation immediately faded when John’s eyes flickered over Sherlock’s half-naked form. John scanned his chest, torso, and neck, eyes widening by a fraction. It was quick, but Sherlock caught it and their eyes met. John looked away and cleared his throat, the tips of his ears turning the lightest shade of pink. Sherlock pulled the dressing gown around himself and tied it, feeling a blush rise and mirror John’s. They did...things, last night, but they had been fully clothed and drunk on endorphins. The quiet morning brought their situation to an ugly head. Sherlock felt weirdly vulnerable, which confused him, because he was fine with walking around in a sheet before. Did John look away because he was disgusted, or interested?

More importantly, Sherlock had not been prepared to face John yet, and it was very uncomfortable. The room was silent now, and if John didn’t want to talk, Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to initiate conversation.

“I think I’ll visit Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said on a whim.

“Good idea,” John said, looking at the toast in his hand. “She could use the company.”

Sherlock didn’t respond and left the flat. He went down the stairs and stopped once he reached the ground floor, placing his hand over his heart. His chest felt tight. That was one of the most awkward conversations he ever had. He hated being uncomfortable with John. Things weren’t meant to be that way.

He knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

She opened it with a smile. “Good morning, Sherlock,” she chirped. “I was just about to bring up your tea.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said. “I’ll take it here.”

“What about John?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together. “He’s fine. He’s already had his breakfast.”

“You’re sure? Well, all right, then,” she stepped aside. “Come in.”

Sherlock took a cup of tea from the tray on the coffee table and sat on Mrs. Hudson’s sofa, staring at the floor absently.

"John told me you caught those men last night?¨ Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Mhm," he hummed.

"That’s great,” she beamed proudly. “What would Scotland Yard do without you boys?”

His lips twitched into a grin. “Let’s never find out. It was simple, anyway.”

“For you, it was.” Mrs. Hudson sat in a chair next to the sofa. “So, what brings you here?”

He took a sip of tea. “I can’t visit?”

“You’re always welcome, but you only come down when you need something.”

Sherlock shrugged childishly. “I just felt like it.” He looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes in the carpet. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here and just gone back to his room instead.

A beat of silence. “Sherlock, is something wrong?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“No,” he said firmly, looking up.

She was looking at him with pity and Sherlock couldn’t stand it. She probably knew. He was so obvious all of the time. A complete stranger could see his feelings. He put his tea down and got up, walking over to one of the shelves on her wall and fiddling with a knick-knack. It was a ceramic elephant. She could truly be an odd woman at times.

“Did something happen?” she asked gently.

“Something always happens. Things happen every day,” he replied sharply. He did not want sympathy. He did not want to talk.

He heard Mrs. Hudson sigh. “It’s just that,” she said, “John didn’t seem himself this morning.”

Sherlock’s heart gave a hard thump. “Oh? You saw him?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Yes. Well, it was around one in the morning when he got in. I asked where you were and he said you’d gone for a walk. He seemed very tense.”

“John’s always tense,” Sherlock mumbled. “He’s been tense since…Well, you know.” Since John came back. Sherlock was beyond glad to have John back at Baker Street where he belonged, but John wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the John he grew to love three years ago. But then, Sherlock wasn’t the same, either. He still loved John, but worried about him.

“That’s just because it’s been a hard transition for him,” Mrs. Hudson waved her hand. “You can’t expect a man to bounce back from a ruined marriage right away. I was upset after the end of my marriage, and you know how better off I am without him. It’s been a huge relief.”

Sherlock was quiet. It didn’t make sense for John to be upset about the termination of his marriage. He _wanted_ it to end.

“Why were you awake that late?” Sherlock asked, changing the subject.

“I was waiting for you to get in. But Sherlock, I’m talking about something else--something off from how he usually is.”

Of course she wouldn’t be distracted. Did every little thing have to go wrong for Sherlock today?

“There was something different about him. I don’t know. Sherlock, did something happen between you two?”

Sherlock swallowed and put down the elephant. “What do you mean?”

“Anything at all,” she replied with feigned innocence. “Any quarrels? Domestics?”

 _Domestics._ Why couldn’t she be an ordinary, unperceptive old lady? He turned to look at her. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Hudson, but be assured everything is fine between me and John. He was merely stressed due to the case. It was a rough chase and he was tired. That’s all.”

Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea, eyeing him over the rim of the cup. She put the tea down on a saucer. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“I am sure, _mother,”_ he rolled his eyes.

“You should call your mother. She’s always worried about you.”

He sneered, “I did not come here to be lectured.”

Mrs. Hudson held up her hands, “I’m just saying, dear. She calls me for updates now because you won’t answer your phone.”

Sherlock shuddered, “God, really? How awful. I’m going back upstairs. Good day, Mrs. Hudson.” He walked to her door and remembered to be polite. He flashed her a smile, “Thank you for the tea.”

“Of course--”

He left and shut the door before she finished speaking. He went up to his flat slowly, not sure if he should go straight to his room or try to interact with John again. He walked into the sitting room. John was in his chair on his laptop. Perhaps that was a good idea: he should go into his room with his laptop, that way he could put some distance between himself and John, but also try to take his mind off things with the internet. His laptop was on the floor beside his chair.

“How was Mrs. Hudson?” John asked, not looking away from the computer screen.

“Fine, as usual,” Sherlock said, walking to his chair and bending down, grabbing his laptop. When he stood up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the mantle. He saw a red mark on his neck below his ear. His brow furrowed. What was that? Supporting the laptop with one arm, he touched the mark. It didn’t really hurt. He didn’t remember anything hitting him in the neck.

Then, he remembered John biting his neck last night. Oh. That must have been it. A quick glance sideways revealed John staring at him. Sherlock looked at him and John immediately snapped his attention back to his computer. Sherlock swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat.

There was the evidence of their interaction, shining from his throat like a lantern. That must have been why John was uncomfortable when he looked at Sherlock earlier.

Sherlock knew saying something would only make the atmosphere worse, so he strode past John and locked himself in his room. He put the laptop on his bedside table and threw himself onto the mattress. He looked at the clock: 10:43. He hadn’t even been awake for an hour, and this was already one of the most miserable days of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pining!Sherlock is my aesthetic.


	3. Biological Inconveniences and a Good Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns the difference between John's nightmares and another type of dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for taking my survey! (If you're just tuning in now, you probably have no idea what I'm talking about because I deleted the link from the notes of the last chapter lol. If you're confused, I'm writing a paper on why slash fan fiction is primarily read and written by women.)  
> I have more than enough answers for my paper! Thank you sosososo much!  
> Also: someone messaged me on tumblr with a prompt. I answered back asking for specifics, but haven't gotten an answer. If that was you, let me know!  
> Some of you are interested in the results. I need to look over all of the data (over 70 people took it!) and may post a link to a summary of the results. We'll see.

The next two days passed pretty much uneventfully. Sherlock stayed in his room most of the time, reading about various diseases on Wikipedia because there was nothing better to do, and when he did see John, he was polite, but didn’t go out of his way to hang around him. Sherlock was still uncertain on how to proceed, so he figured polite yet distant was the best approach for now.

Around one in the morning on Wednesday, an odd dream woke Sherlock. He couldn’t remember what it was about, but it left him uneasy. Sherlock frowned and sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He struggled to grasp at the fading strands of the dream. Mary popped into his head. He must have dreamt of her. He walked into the sitting room, thinking about playing his violin, when he heard a sound.

It was very quiet, so Sherlock held his breath and eliminated all other sounds from his attention, his ears straining. Because it was late, the flat was quiet, so Sherlock was able to hear the sound again. It sounded like a moan.

John.

Sherlock sighed in sympathy. It must have been another nightmare. Sherlock didn’t know what John dreamt of lately, if he was plagued by memories of Afghanistan, the ordeal with Mary, or Sherlock’s jump. The last always made Sherlock guilty. He was about to play the violin anyway, so Sherlock thought it would be a good idea to play a soothing tune. Sherlock discovered that if he sat on the steps leading up to John’s room and played very softly, that was the most effective way to ease John’s unconscious mind.

Grabbing his violin and bow, Sherlock carefully ascended the stairs, mindful of all the spots that squeaked and creaked, and sat gingerly on the top step, right outside the door. Sherlock lifted the violin and rested his chin on the end, raising the bow in the air, and he heard John moan more. Sherlock hesitated. There was something off about John’s moans. Usually, when in the throes of a nightmare, John made _mph!_ sounds, muffled by his lips, which were pressed together in despair (not that Sherlock watched John sleep--he simply deduced this. Was it strange that he memorized the sound of John’s moans?).

But, tonight, John’s moans sounded more like long, drawn out, _uhhh_ sounds, leading Sherlock to believe John’s mouth was open as he was doing this. Was John in pain? Sherlock set down his violin on the step and stood, carefully and slowly opening the bedroom door. John was a private man and his room was off-limits, but Sherlock could not sit there if John were in some kind of pain. Sherlock would violate every rule to make sure John was okay.

Sherlock looked inside the bedroom. John was lying on his back, blankets pulled down to his waist. His hands were bunched into fists around the sheets, his feet shuffled uncomfortably, and his hips were moving up and--

John had an erection.

Sherlock nearly fell backwards down the steps. He tightened his grip on the doorknob to steady himself.

John threw his head to the side and moaned louder, hips thrusting up.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, a harsh breath escaping his lips. He should go. This was an invasion of privacy. He felt his cock twitch and respond to John’s breathy moans and the sight of his erection straining against the duvet. Sherlock’s hand slid down without his permission and cupped himself. Sherlock rubbed his palm over his hardening cock. He needed to leave.

John turned on his side, his body clearly struggling to find release. Sherlock saw John’s arm move under the duvet to his crotch.

All of the blood that wasn’t rushing to Sherlock’s groin rushed to his face. He wanted to crawl into bed with John, take his hardness into his hand and watch his orgasm, but that would make their situation ten times worse. He was pretty sure that may have constituted as assault, too, and Sherlock only wanted to touch John if he wanted it. Sherlock shut the door as quietly as possible and went straight to his room. He shut his bedroom door, heart thundering. He had felt John’s erection against his a couple days ago, but everything had been so fast, and it was so different to see John in his bed, aroused and unaware. Sherlock’s mouth watered.

He shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t.

He was going to.

He quickly shed his clothes and lay on his back on the bed. The anticipation alone made him harden further. He planted his feet on the mattress, bending his knees, and wrapped his hand around his dick. Sherlock sighed shakily and thought of John, right upstairs, right overhead, thrusting into the air and moaning, and Sherlock stroked himself a few times, from tip down to the root. He then thrust into his hand, which was a little damp from sweat, but still relatively dry. Sherlock could not bother to stop and reach for lube from his bedside table, however. He often found that once he decided to pleasure himself, it was difficult to stop.

Sherlock tightened his grip, squeezing himself lightly, groans muffled by his bitten lip. His nipples were hard and tingled, and he brought his free hand up to his chest, thumb rubbing one of the hard nubs. He inhaled sharply, thrusting faster and harder. His nipples had always been particularly sensitive. He imagined John licking and nibbling them. Precome was already leaking from his tip. He was like a volcano anymore, ready to erupt. It was ridiculous. Sherlock’s hips moved on their own accord, fast and furious.

He was fucking his hand, growling and grunting, biting his lower lip hard. John may have been doing the same, right upstairs, only separated by the ceiling. Sherlock gasped at the thought, throwing his head back and groaning. His balls were drawing up and a thought invaded his mind: what if John were masturbating, thinking of him, coming with Sherlock’s name on his lips?

That was more than enough to make Sherlock come with a shout, semen spilling over his hand, spurting on his chest and collarbone. He rode his orgasm, back arching off the bed, and collapsed, panting. He let go of his cock, now oversensitive and spent, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He shivered and his thighs trembled. His orgasms were intense more often than not.

Sherlock’s eyes slid open, looking down at the mess on his torso. He reached down to the floor and picked up his shirt, wiping himself, and threw the soiled garment back. Sherlock’s limbs felt loose and warm and he was sleepy, the weird dream he had long forgotten. He got under the duvet and sheets. This didn’t really help his dilemma with John, if anything it made him desire John more, but the momentary satisfaction was nice. He fell asleep wondering if John had pleasured himself, and wondering if John thought of him.

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up the second time that morning to a few knocks on his door.

He yawned. “Yes?”

John spoke from behind the door. “Hey, Sherlock, can I open the door?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, rubbing his eyes.

John opened the door, looking puzzled, but with a smile playing at his lips. “Why was this here?” John had Sherlock’s violin and bow in his hand.

Sherlock silently cursed. He couldn’t think of a plausible excuse mere seconds after waking up. He couldn’t believe he forgot it.

John quietly chuckled at his silence. “You’re lucky I didn’t step on this and break it. I nearly did, you know.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Sherlock said, voice hoarse from slumber. He cleared his throat.

“It’s okay, I just want to know why it was outside my door.”

If Sherlock admitted to being outside of John’s door, then John might connect the dots and realize Sherlock heard him. But John may not have remembered his sex dream. He could convince John he thought it was a nightmare, too.

“I heard sounds of distress and played the violin to ease your discomfort. I was very tired by the time I finished, so I must have forgotten it and gone right to bed.” That was stupid. Sherlock wouldn’t just forget his instrument because he was tried. Arousal apparently caused this, but never fatigue.

John gave a lopsided smile and he cleared his throat, looking simultaneously touched and embarrassed. Sherlock couldn’t tell if he really remembered his dream or not. “You didn’t have to do that, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t mind,” Sherlock said, and just seeing John smile was worth his absentmindedness.

John was looking at him directly, sleep-rumpled and soft. Sherlock wanted to hug him.“Well, come get this,” John held up the violin and bow. “I’m always afraid I’ll break it whenever I touch it.”

Sherlock sat up and the sheet and duvet fell away, revealing his bare chest and reminding him of his nudity. “Um, John--”

And then the domesticity vanished.

John licked his lips, looking at the discarded pajamas on the floor for the first time, eyes locking on Sherlock’s stained shirt from a few hours ago.

Sherlock’s hand tightened around the sheets and he tugged them up.

John cleared his throat loudly. “Actually, I’ll just put this on your chair in the sitting room, yeah? That’ll, um, that’ll be okay with you, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock barely managed to croak before John nodded.

“Right. I’ll go do that.” He left, shutting Sherlock’s bedroom door.

Sherlock threw himself back on to the bed. Was this going to be their lives now? Every little reminder of sex sending John into an embarrassed fit? Sherlock was hurt by this, by John’s determination to erase what they did, but he was also getting slightly irritated. There was absolutely no way they could live like this, and living without John was completely off the table. Sherlock had to think of something. He needed advice.

He needed a friend.

This time, Sherlock was actually certain which day it was (Wednesday), so he waited until John left for work to come out of his room. He dressed, removed the violin and bow from where John placed it, and sat in his chair. He pulled out his phone and went through his contact list, scrolling to the “L” section. His thumb hovered over the name. It would take years for him to live this down. He may never live this down. But John was more important than his pride.

He called Lestrade.

Lestrade picked up on the second ring and the first thing he did was sigh. “Sherlock, I don’t have a case for you. You just had one a--”

“No, no, don’t be stupid,” Sherlock cut him off. Maybe he shouldn’t insult a man he was going to ask for help. “I’m not calling for that,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” Lestrade asked, surprised. “Well, all right, then. Is something wrong?”

This was the hardest part. “No. Well, yes. Something is wrong, but there is no danger.”

“...O _kay_ ,” Lestrade sounded like he was trying to keep up. “Sherlock, you might want to start making sense.”

Sherlock resisted insulting his intelligence. “It’s a personal matter.”

“You’re calling me about personal issues?”

Sherlock crossed his legs, getting defensive even though he was alone in the room. “If that’s a problem--”

“No,” Lestrade interrupted, “no, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just unusual for you. The last time you called me about a, uh, ‘personal matter’ was when you needed help with your best man’s speech.”

A reminder of that day stuck a pin in Sherlock’s chest. “Yes, I remember,” he grumbled.

“Right.” A pause. “So, what’s up?”

“It’s...about John.” He felt idiotic. He felt adolescent. He felt prepubescent.

“Is something wrong with John?”

“Not...No. Maybe.”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” he asked patiently.

“You were married. You’ve had relationships. You are familiar with this subject, yes?”

A few seconds of silence passed. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Holy shit.”

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

“Have you two actually gotten your shit together?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Were they really that obvious? “No. That’s the reason why I’m calling.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock could picture him nodding on the other end of the call. “I think I’m getting the idea.”

“Are you pleased with yourself?”

“A bit.”

Sherlock almost regretted calling him. “Will you help me, or are you going to be insufferably smug about this and laugh at me?”

“I’m not laughing, Sherlock. I’m just proud of you.” He sounded like he was smiling.

“Don’t patronize me,” he muttered.

“I’m not, I promise. Sherlock, is John home right now?”

“No, he’s at work until five.”

“Good, ‘cause you need two things right now: a man-to-man, and booze.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Papa Lestrade.


	4. A Friend in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade comes over to listen to his friend's woes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad people support Papa Lestrade. He is wonderful :)  
> (By the way, for those interested in the results of the survey, I got WAY too much information to post anything here. I'm glad you all took it seriously, though!)

Lestrade knocked on the door to the flat twenty-five minutes after the end of their phone call. Sherlock answered the door, though reluctantly, because while he wanted help, he wasn’t sure what a “man-to-man” exactly meant. The only friend he really had besides Lestrade was John and Molly (he regarded Mrs. Hudson as more of a surrogate mother), and he couldn’t have a man-to-man with Molly, and any attempt at acting like “mates” with John always wound up feeling wrong.

Sherlock opened the door.

Lestrade was standing there with a friendly smile, but concerned look on his face. “Hey, Sherlock.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock nearly burst out, his anxiety getting to him, “you look as if you’re visiting me on my death bed. This isn’t that serious.”

“You called for help; it is serious,” he said gravely.

Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked over to his chair, sitting down with more force than necessary.

Lestrade came in and shut the door. “You said you have whiskey?”

“Top cupboard on the left,” Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms. He didn’t drink often, but John liked to have alcohol in the house. He drank more than he used to, but not enough for Sherlock to be worried. Yet. He had a chart documenting John’s alcohol use, so he was keeping track of it.

A minute later, Lestrade walked into the sitting room with the whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“You’re drinking, as well?” Sherlock asked.

“Just a little. If we’re going to be talking about your feelings, I’m going to need it.”

Sherlock huffed and glared at him, but he knew Lestrade was at least half-kidding.

Lestrade poured a glass and handed it to Sherlock, and then sat in John’s chair with his own glass in his hand. He placed the bottle on the small table next to John’s chair.

Sherlock looked at the glass in his hand and then drank half of it in a single gulp, the liquid burning his throat.

“Easy,” Lestrade warned, “we both know how much of a lightweight you are.”

A reminder of John’s stag night was not welcomed. A part of him regretted not acting upon his feelings that night, but if he did, John would have probably reacted similarly to a few days ago.

“Tell me what brought this on,” Lestrade reclined in the chair, taking a sip from his glass. “What made you call me now?”

Sherlock kept his eyes on his whiskey. “The case last weekend,” he said.

“Something happened then? You two seemed fine when you left, way too pleased with yourselves as usual after a case.”

“We had been,” Sherlock agreed. “It was afterwards when everything went downhill.”

“Okay,” Sherlock saw Lestrade nod out of the corner of his eye. “So, where did you go after you left?”

“We were heading home when I challenged John to a race.” Saying that out loud made him feel like the child Mycroft often accused him of being. Sherlock drank more whiskey, the event he was about to recount threatening to make his face heat. “We fell in an alleyway and since we were feeling the effects of adrenaline, we made unwise decisions and engaged in activities that John was apparently not prepared for.” He kept his eyes resolutely on the glass.

“Is that Sherlock-speak for saying you shagged in an alley?”

Sherlock drank more.

“You did,” Lestrade said, his tone 85% astonished and 15% amused. “All it took was a bloody alley for you to actually act on something?”

“Are you going to spend the entire conversation like this?”

“No, sorry. You said something about John not being prepared for it?”

Sherlock nodded. “We were interrupted by a passerby before we...finished.” His fingers tightened around the glass. “That seemed to snap John out of it.” Being forced to remember what happened made Sherlock’s heart feel like stone. He drank the last of his drink. “He said we should forget about it,” he said quietly. That hurt the most. He could understand being startled, but John regretted touching Sherlock enough to act like it never happened.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lestrade swore angrily. “I can’t believe that!”

Sherlock looked at him, and Lestrade did look angry. Sherlock was torn between feeling satisfied he had someone on his side, and his instinct to defend John. “He probably has his reasons.”

Lestrade shook his head, mouth set in a grim line. “That’s a load of shite, Sherlock. What did you say to that?”

“Nothing, really. I don’t think it would have helped.”

Lestrade was shocked. “You let him say that to you?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to feel about that.

Lestrade just shook his head. “He’s been crazy about you for years, and he just turns on you like that? It isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense, either.”

 _He’s been crazy about you for years._ Sherlock replayed the sentence several times in his head.

“Sherlock, you with me?”

Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade. “Yes, sorry.”

“You’re not getting drunk already?”

“No.” He felt the _tiniest_ bit tipsy, but that was all. Tipsy. But talking about this situation made him need more. He stood from the chair and grabbed the bottle from the table, feeling just slightly lightheaded, but that could be attributed to getting up too quickly. He filled his glass and put the bottle back, choosing not to acknowledge Lestrade’s gaze.

Sherlock drank more.

“Sherlock, be honest with me. How long have you, well…?” he waved his hand.

“What?”

Lestrade drank more. His glass still had a quarter of liquid in it. Maybe Sherlock was going too fast. “You know, felt this way?”

Sherlock swallowed. “A long time,” he said simply. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint when it started. It was hard to remember a time when he didn’t belong to John. His chest felt odd right now, a combination of heaviness caused by sadness and a nervous fluttering caused by confessing his feelings to Lestrade, of all people. It felt very odd, indeed. He drank more.

Lestrade sighed heavily and leaned forward in the chair, looking at Sherlock directly. “I’ve known John for years, not as well as you, but well enough. We’ve gone to the pub a few times, and you know what he talked about every time we went out?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You, you sod. He always talked about _you._ That says something. I’m not a consulting detective, but I am a D.I. for a reason,” he joked lightly.

“I know that,” Sherlock said. “You’re very good at your job.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened and his lips formed a small grin. “Well, you must be getting drunk if you said that,” he chuckled.

And maybe Sherlock was starting to feel the effects of alcohol, because instead of being moody, he allowed himself to smile.

Sherlock refilled his glass again, feeling more lightheaded when he stood up this time, and Lestrade turned down his offer for another glass.

“That’s enough for me. It’s early the early afternoon and I do have to stop by the Yard later.”

Sherlock sat down and drank.

“Slow down,” Lestrade told him.

“I’m an adult,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, but I’ve only been here for about ten minutes and you’ve drank more than you usually do in a month.”

Sherlock drank more spitefully.

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. “All right, I’ll get to the point. I don’t know for sure why John reacted that way, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably got to do with Mary.”

Sherlock scowled at hearing her name. “What the hell does she have to do with it?” He didn’t bother to hide his contempt for her. There was no point anymore.

“He was completely betrayed by her,” Lestrade said, as if Sherlock needed a reminder. “Maybe he’s afraid to get in another relationship.”

“I wouldn’t betray him,” Sherlock said at once.

Lestrade pressed his lips together and looked down at the floor. “Sherlock, you did.”

“When?” he snapped.

“The whole Moriarty business?”

“That was three years ago!” he threw his arms in the air, almost spilling the whiskey in the process.

“You still hurt him badly,” Lestrade said firmly, eyes shooting up to Sherlock’s. “I know why you did it, but it doesn’t change facts, Sherlock.”

The usual guilt he felt with that whole incident filled Sherlock. “All I could do is apologize and not leave him again. I’ve apologized, and I won’t do anything like that in the future. What more do you want?”

“I know. I’m just saying.”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon them.

Mary could have had to do with it. It was always her. Even in absence, she haunted them. There could have been other things influencing John. Something Sherlock always thought presented itself. “Do you think it’s because I’m male?”

Lestrade’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s got Harry, right? He doesn’t seem to think that way.”

“That doesn’t mean much,” Sherlock said glumly.

“It might not, but I just don’t think so. You, uh, did more than kiss? I don’t need the details, but a straight bloke wouldn’t do--whatever that was--with another man.”

That made sense. “I suppose not,” he lowered his eyes.

“And he had, well, experiences.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up. “What? What are you talking about?”

Lestrade realized his error. “Forget I said anything.”

“Tell me,” he demanded, sitting on the edge of his seat.

“No, Sherlock,” Lestrade said sternly. “John is still my friend and he told me not to.”

Sherlock slumped back in the chair. “I know everything about him. What is he keeping from me? Why is he keeping it from me?”

“I don’t know, ask him. Are you planning to talk to him about this?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock admitted. “It may make things worse, but I can’t imagine living with this hanging over our heads. We act like it didn’t happen, but it did. It did and it’s in everything we do. How could he expect me to just _delete_ this?” He was starting to babble. “I was obsessed with finding out his bloody middle name, and he expects me to delete kissing him? He must truly be an idiot. He must know how I feel,” he sat up and put his arms on his knees, rubbing his face with his hands. “He must know. I kissed back. And more. There was more.”

“All right,” Lestrade said gently, holding up his hands. “Don’t get yourself all worked up,” he took the whiskey out of Sherlock’s hand. “Enough of this, okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, which made his head spin. He felt very warm. Warm and increasingly disoriented. This is why he never drank. He really was a lightweight.

Apparently he said that out loud because Lestrade laughed. “Yeah, you are. John is, too, but you’re probably the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve got a much higher tolerance for drugs,” Sherlock said.

“I know,” Lestrade said uncomfortably.

That wasn’t a good thing to say. “You haven’t told me what to do yet.”

“Well, you definitely shouldn’t drop this. Both of you will be miserable.”

“Clearly.”

Lestrade thought for a moment, fingers drumming on the arm of John’s chair. “I think I have an idea,” a smirk slowly spread across his face. “Something that’ll give you a push, since you blokes are pathetic on your own.”

“Well, what is it?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“I have to work out the details,” Lestrade said, standing. “I won’t tell you until I know I can work it out. Don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“I need to know _now_ ,” Sherlock insisted. “John’s going to come home and I’ll have to be around him and not act upon all _this_ ,” he referred to his abhorrent emotions. “What do I do when John comes home?”

“Listen, I have to go. I’ll text you one way or the other, okay? For now, keep doing what you’re doing.”

“What, mope around the flat like a heartbroken teen?”

“I meant keeping calm.” Lestrade looked at him with true sympathy. “I know this is hard for you. You love him, yeah?”

Sherlock looked away in shame. Thank god he wasn’t sober for this. Lestrade was smart when he suggested alcohol.

“No, it’s okay. You haven’t done anything wrong here. Just--give me a day or two, okay? You two are my friends, and like hell will I deal with you pining and all that crap around each other for the years to come.”

That put a small smile on Sherlock’s face. “Okay.”

Lestrade mirrored his smile. “Hang in there. I’ll be in touch.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle. “No more of this tonight.” He walked into the kitchen and put the bottle back.

That was a good idea. If he drank anymore, he might throw himself (literally) at John when he came home from work.

“That’s why I put it back,” Lestrade said.

Oh. He must have voiced that thought, too.

“You did,” Lestrade nodded. “You really have the tolerance of an old woman.”

“That’s not true,” Sherlock defended. “Mrs. Hudson holds her liquor admirably.” That didn’t help his case, did it?

Lestrade snorted. “I don’t doubt that. See you later, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, Lestrade.” Lestrade just came over to help. He shouldn’t be ungrateful. “Thank you,” he added quietly as Lestrade opened the door.

“Don’t mention it,” Lestrade said over his shoulder and left the flat.

Sherlock was irritated at Lestrade’s cryptic plan. He got up, stumbled a little, and went over to the sofa. He threw himself on it, turned on his side, and held one of the pillows to his chest. He felt warm and tipsy. There were a few hours until John came home, so Sherlock allowed himself to close his eyes and rest.

* * *

 

Sherlock felt a warm hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. He groaned and kept his eyes closed, shuffling closer to the back of the sofa.

“Sherlock?”

It was John. Lovely John. John!

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. John was standing there, hovering over him.

“You okay?” he asked. “You don't usually nap in the afternoon.”

“‘m fine,” Sherlock mumbled, words thick on his tongue. He was right: he had been only tipsy because he had a small headache, easily ignorable, as opposed to the blindingly painful hangover he experienced the morning after John’s stag night.

John put his hand on Sherlock’s forehead, brushing the damp curls away. It was the most they had touched in days. “You feel warm.”

“I’m not sick,” Sherlock rolled onto his back, looking up at John fully. “Just drunk. Well, I was.”

“You got drunk?” John asked in alarm.

Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Relax. I was actually buzzed at most.”

“It’s just unusual for you,” John said warily.

“Would you rather I used cocaine?”

Sherlock wished he could take back those words as soon as he said them.

As expected, John’s face contorted in anger. “Don’t, Sherlock,” he nearly spat. “Don’t fucking go there.”

Making John angry wouldn’t help anything. “I’m sorry.” He ran his hands through his hair and ruffled his damp curls, which had been sticking to his temples.

The anger simmered down in John, though it was still there. “Why were you drinking?”

“I just felt like it,” he lied.

“You never just feel like drinking.”

“Why do you care?”

His temper flared up again in an instant. “Maybe I’m concerned for you?”

“Hard to believe.”

“What?” he asked in indignation. “Why?”

 _Because you left me in a cold alley._ He held that back when he thought of Lestrade’s theory, that John was internally struggling. “Nothing,” Sherlock sunk into the cushions. “Never mind. My head just hurts.”

John heaved a sigh and shook his head. “I wish you would tell me what’s wrong.”

John was a smart man, but sometimes he could be so obtuse. Sherlock looked him dead in the eye. In the low light of the late winter afternoon, John’s eyes were almost dark enough to be mistaken as brown. John licked his lips. Nervous tic.

“Is it really that difficult to deduce?” Sherlock asked, his tone colder than intended, not breaking eye contact.

John opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed. “I,” he cleared his throat, “don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock remembered Lestrade’s implication about John’s sexual history. What was he hiding? Sherlock couldn’t deal with it now. He stood up and walked to his room, not saying a word, and went in his room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If they just talked, their problems would be over. Ugh. I'm frustrating myself.  
> Also, I think we can all agree Sherlock is the biggest lightweight in the history of lightweights.


	5. Schemes and Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is getting bored, so he makes a small plan to occupy himself until Lestrade gets back to him. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated! I finished my research paper. My teacher is looking it over. I have to present it to underclassmen on March 11th. I'm going to have to discuss the appeal of gay, fictional dicks in front of younger teenagers. Help.
> 
> BY THE WAY: I got two prompts in my inbox on tumblr. To those two lovely people: I haven't forgotten about you! I just want to finish this first.

Because Sherlock had gone to his room in the late afternoon, he fell asleep much earlier than usual, thus he woke up before 9:00 without an alarm for the first time in months. He never knew why John thought he didn’t sleep. He slept far more often than John, who always woke early due to military habit.

So when he woke up before John had to leave for work, Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes, confused for a moment when he heard voices outside his door. It took his brain a moment to realize it was John and Mrs. Hudson talking in the kitchen. She must have brought up the tea. Why that was a habit of hers, Sherlock didn’t know. Although their voices were quiet, Sherlock could tell they were not having simple small talk, but discussing something distressing. Sherlock could not help but silently get out of bed and press his ear against his bedroom door, trying to listen to John and Mrs. Hudson’s conversation happening right outside in the kitchen. He couldn’t help being curious. It was in his nature.

They were keeping their voices low, whether it was because they wanted the conversation to be private or they didn’t want to wake Sherlock, he was unsure.

Mrs. Hudson was speaking. He couldn’t make out a lot of her sentence, but caught, “...seem off for the past few days.”

“Not really.” John sounded tense.

More garbled words. “...just worried, dear.”

“There’s nothing...everything’s fine…”

Sherlock sighed and resisted the urge to bang his head against the door. It was clear that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t rest until she found out what was wrong. That didn’t bother him so much, he knew that she cared. John insisting everything was fine was frustrating. But then again, John always had trouble discussing his emotions. It would be odd for him to have a heart-to-heart with Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen at 7:26 on a Thursday morning.

“He gets hurt easily,” he heard Mrs. Hudson say.

Sherlock grimaced, feeling his cheeks heat. He didn’t like being talked about in general, but someone talking about his feelings, and to John of all people? He would not allow this. More importantly, he would not let Mrs. Hudson convince John that he was some emotional, pathetic, delicate flower. He opened the bedroom door. They immediately stopped talking.

Could they be any more obvious?

He stumbled into the kitchen, acting like he woke up only a moment ago. He yawned and opened the refrigerator. “Morning,” he mumbled to them.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Hudson greeted brightly.

“Morning,” John said.

Sherlock grabbed a milk carton and opened it, drinking four long gulps.

“Sherlock, get a glass,” Mrs. Hudson scolded.

Sherlock put the lid back on the carton and shrugged, smirking.

John smirked back, and Sherlock’s heart gave a little kick.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “That’s just unsanitary, shouldn’t you know that? You’re a scientist.”

“Science is a hobby for me,” Sherlock corrected her, putting the milk back. “Besides, I don’t care.”

John snorted. “Just remind me not to drink that for the next few days.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Well, I’m going back downstairs. Have a nice day, boys.”

“You, too,” John called after her.

Sherlock made an agreeing sound in his throat.

Mrs. Hudson left.

They were alone again.

Sherlock glanced at the clock on the microwave. John had to leave in six minutes. He could talk to John for six minutes without wanting to dig his heart out with a spoon. They were friends. Sherlock stretched, arms reaching over his head, and his T-shirt rode up to the top of his belly button.

John looked down at Sherlock’s stomach and hips, turned away, and licked his lips. Interesting.

“So, what are you up to today?” John asked, looking down at the table, finger smoothing over the scratches left by the man who had been sent to the flat and tried to fight Sherlock with a sword. That was so early in their friendship, before their lives were interrupted by Moriarty and Mary. Looking at those marks was almost nostalgic.

“Oh, nothing terribly important,” Sherlock said casually, leaning against the refrigerator. “I’m waiting for something from Lestrade.”

“Yeah?” John looked at him, perking up like a puppy. “You think we’ll have a case soon?”

John’s eagerness made Sherlock smile. This was proof John didn’t want to stop working with him, at the very least. “I believe so.” Sherlock didn’t know what Lestrade had in-store for him, but a case always came up eventually.

“That’s good. It’s been five days; I was afraid you’d go mad soon.”

Sherlock hummed. “It’s always possible.” John looked nice this morning. He was wearing a blue jumper, which was one of Sherlock’s favorites, because it brought out his eyes beautifully. John’s hair was more ruffled than usual. Sherlock loved his hair like that. He wanted to mess with John’s hair, make it stand up, just to see John glare at him. Like a grumpy little animal or something.

“Sherlock, you’re staring at me.”

So he was. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Apologies. I got lost in a trance.”

John looked a little flushed. “Ha, Mind Palace again?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, neither confirming or denying.

John glanced down at his watch. “I should go. Text me if we’ve got something, okay?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.

John flashed him a quick smile and grabbed his jacket, leaving the flat.

That wasn’t particularly painful. John eyeing him up made Sherlock’s blood hot, but it was bearable. Maybe Sherlock should reveal skin around John more often. It was only one day, but he was bored with waiting for Lestrade. He was bored in general. John was right: five days without a case was taxing on his mind.

Things were a little better with John today, so why not test the waters? It’s not like he would actually try to touch John, or get John to touch him. Just something to make John look at him with hunger again. Sherlock thought of something. The sheet. He always walked around in a sheet before. Would it make John suspicious now? But, that may not be shocking to John anymore because Sherlock had done it so many times. He didn’t want to be completely obvious, but he wanted to make an impact. He needed an excuse to be at least shirtless around John.

Why not heat?

Sherlock turned up the thermostat by five degrees. After two hours, Mrs. Hudson came knocking on his door.

“Sherlock, why is it so hot in this building?”

Sherlock didn’t bother opening the door. “Experiment, Mrs. Hudson. I promise I’ll turn it back down tonight.”

Her sigh sounded annoyed, but she left. She knew not to mess with his experiments by now (unless it involved fire; she absolutely wouldn’t allow that).

It was getting warm in the flat, not enough to make Sherlock sweat, but enough so that a long-sleeved shirt was uncomfortable. Sherlock took off his shirt and sat on the couch, computer on his lap. This could utterly fail to get John’s attention, but thinking back on John licking his lips when just seeing Sherlock’s navel, Sherlock doubted that.

The day passed by slowly until John came home.

John opened the door, “Sherlock, is it hot in here?” he took off his jacket. “It wasn’t this hot when I left.” He looked at Sherlock then, and his eyes lingered before he looked down to take off his shoes.

“It is hot, yes,” Sherlock said and put his laptop on the coffee table. “I don’t know why. Mrs. Hudson called someone.” And by someone, Sherlock mean he would turn down the thermostat after John went to bed.

John hummed, his feigned nonchalance transparent. “Hope it gets fixed soon.” Shoes off, John looked at Sherlock. He cleared his throat. “Did you just sit there all day?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said honestly.

“Why is it some days you can’t sit still, and other days you can not move for hours?”

 _Because I’m entertained by this._ “My mind doesn’t make sense at times.”

John smiled. “Right you are.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Good thing this happened now and not the summer. I think we’d die of heat stroke.”

Sherlock made an amused sound in his throat.

Then, John pulled off his jumper.

This wasn’t a strange action, it was hot in the room, but Sherlock didn’t expect it. John still had a vest on, but seeing the material cling to John’s chest along with a view of John’s arms, still muscled from the army and all of the running around they did, made Sherlock’s mouth dry.

He did not plan ahead.

John didn’t wear short sleeves often, so when Sherlock did get to see his bare skin, he could not look away.

“Sherlock? Staring again.”

This wasn’t a good idea.

“My head isn’t right today,” he lied. Well, he figured his head was never right, but he couldn’t do anything about that.

“You didn’t drink again, did you?” John narrowed his eyes.

“No, for god’s sake,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m completely sober. You drink more than I do.”

“I don’t have the tolerance of a five year-old.”

“How do you know how much alcohol a five year-old could take?”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” the corners of John’s mouth lifted in a small grin.  
“Fine, fine. You’re right. You have the tolerance of a six year-old.”

“Oi,” John crossed his arms. “Watch it.”

John’s bare arms crossing across his chest did things to Sherlock. Things that made Sherlock have to cross his legs. Would this be their evening: staring at each other and denying anything was there? But, that could lead to a progression in their relationship. Maybe. If John lost self-control. Sherlock wouldn’t parade around like a whore, but he could make John sexually frustrated, which could lead to John acting upon his impulses again. His idea could work out in his favor, after all. “John, Mrs. Hudson could out-drink us.”

John laughed. “Very true.”

Sherlock always wondered what would have happened if Mrs. Hudson didn’t interrupt them on the stag night. If she hadn’t interrupted the first time, they would have just fallen asleep on the stairs and woken up the awfully sore backs, but the second time had more opportunities. But, Sherlock supposed he shouldn’t dwell on what might have happened over a year ago. There wasn’t much good in that.

Sherlock’s thighs hurt from sitting in the exact same spot for hours, so he stood. Stretching made John stare at him this morning. _Let’s see…_

Sherlock gave a full body stretch, arms over his head, back arching.

There it was: John looked away again.

Sherlock nearly smirked triumphantly. He was being a tad petty, but he never claimed to be above such behavior.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked. “We could order in.”

John nodded silently.

Sherlock’s phone was over by his chair. He walked to his chair, but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard John gasp behind him. That...couldn’t be right. John may have found his body appealing, but to gasp? That would be extreme.

“John?” he turned around.

John was pale. The flush that had formed on his cheeks from the warmth of the flat was completely gone. His lips were parted and he looked...horrified?

“John, what is it?” Sherlock walked to him, putting his hands on his shoulders. He didn’t even register that he was touching John’s bare skin. All thoughts of his childish game vanished once he was concerned for John.

John swallowed. “Sherlock, turn around.”

John wanted to see his back--?

Sherlock, all at once and far too late, realized this was an extremely stupid idea. How the hell had he been so dense? Was he so wrapped up in his feelings he forgot what was permanently etched into his skin?

He let got of John’s shoulders and crossed his arms, suddenly wanting to cover himself. “No.”

John began to walk forward to get behind Sherlock, so Sherlock walked backwards.

John sniffed, clenching his fists. “Let me see, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t. When he pictured himself having sex with John, he either imagined himself on his back, or on top. He thought he could get away with it, but they hadn’t even got to sex yet and John found out. Sometimes, Sherlock truly was an idiot.

“Sherlock,” John said sharply, then seemed to regret the harshness of his tone. His voice lowered to a near-whisper. “Turn. Around.”

Sherlock’s hands were clammy. John would not let this go. Might as well get it over with. He turned around, closing his eyes and fighting the shame threatening to take over. He could hear John’s heavy breathing.

“When?” John asked.

“Before I came back,” he answered numbly. Sherlock could practically hear the anger boiling in John. But not anger at Sherlock, this time.

“ _Who_ the fuck did this?” John asked fiercely.

“People who are now deceased.” Sherlock didn’t think about what he’d gone through every day. Sometimes the memories came out of nowhere, but he had never been reminded of the events in front of another person. In front of John. Sherlock started when John’s finger touched his back, tracing a particularly long scar. Then, John put his hand on his back, palm running over the damaged skin. There was nothing sexual about this, and that filled Sherlock with a mix of humiliation, grief, and wonder that John wanted to touch him like this, just wanted to comfort him. Sherlock bit his lip, John's hand gentle, so gentle it made his chest tighten.

“Oh, no, no,” John said softly and hugged Sherlock from behind.

Sherlock was going to question this, but then he realized he was trembling. He was so damn stupid, pulling this stunt. He knew the scars he wore. He should have stayed on the fucking sofa. Sherlock sucked in a deep, unsteady breath. He couldn’t turn around and look at John. He didn’t know why he felt like this, so overwhelmed by something that only haunted him occasionally. After he was rescued, Mycroft suggested seeing a therapist. Sherlock had wanted to smack him. Sherlock got nightmares, but since it wasn’t every night, he thought he was fine.

But, maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe Sherlock was more damaged than he thought.  Of course Mycroft was right. Mycroft just had to be right about everything.

Actually being confronted with this by John must have been what pushed him over the edge.

“You don’t have to tell me,” John’s voice pulled Sherlock out of his head. “I’m sorry. I should have left it alone.”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said, voice hoarse. John’s arms around him did help. When Sherlock did allow himself to think of Serbia, he felt afraid, but with John, he felt safe. He wanted to be completely enveloped by John, bury his face in his neck, and be held all night. He turned around in John’s arms.

John’s eyes were filled with sorrow. Years ago, Sherlock would have hated that look. Now, he welcomed John's concern, and kind of needed it.

John looked like he wanted to say something, but he swallowed and shook his head. He hugged Sherlock like he did on the wedding, hand wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and John’s face near his shoulder. “They’re dead, you said? They’re lucky. However they died was definitely better than the hell I would have given them.”

Sherlock grinned. He wasn’t shaking anymore. “I believe that.”

John pulled back, looking at Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock looked at him, feeling entirely too warm. John’s hands were still on his body.

John looked down at Sherlock’s chest and went completely still.

Sherlock looked down.

John was staring at the scar Mary’s bullet left. His eyes suddenly dropped to the floor and he let go of Sherlock.

_No._

John cleared his throat and avoided Sherlock’s piercing, pleading gaze. “Weren’t you going to order food?”

Sherlock wanted to scream. “Yes,” he said.

“Well, you do that. I’ll put tea on in the meantime.”

John was actually making tea to avoid Sherlock. Great. Sherlock grabbed his phone and went into his room, ordered a pizza, and put on his red dressing gown to cover his back. He should turn down the thermostat. It was odd to Sherlock that upon seeing the scars on his back, John wanted to hold him but when he saw Mary’s impact, he shut down.

A text from Lestrade interrupted his train of thought:

I have a case for you. It should help with your problem. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They suck.


	6. Damn Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was going to kill Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for one of the most over-used fan fiction tropes!  
> I have to ask you something. Last chapter got significantly less feedback than the previous. I know that happens sometimes, but I am looking to improve my writing.
> 
> So: do you like where this is going? Is there anything I should be doing?
> 
> At any rate, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Sherlock wanted to hurt Lestrade. The case proved to be a complete waste of time.

“It’s in York,” Lestrade had told him over the phone. “By the time you’re finished up, it’ll probably be late, so we all booked hotel rooms.”

“‘We’?”

“You know, the squad and everyone. You’ll get a room with John--don’t worry.”

Sherlock found this a little suspicious. “How is this case supposed to help? Is John supposed to be amazed by my brilliance? That hasn’t happened in a long time.” Sherlock hated that, hated that John’s eyes didn’t sparkle after a deduction like he used to. He wanted to go back in time so badly, to when they were younger, stupider, and they didn’t have nearly half of the weight they now had on their shoulders.

“Don’t you trust me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock huffed. “Yes.”

So, Sherlock took the case that night. Regardless of what Lestrade had in mind, Sherlock figured a case would alleviate the tension built by John seeing his back and chest.

“John, pack a bag. We’re going to York.”

“Now?” John had looked at the clock. “It’s almost eight.”

“Murder doesn’t care about time,” Sherlock said, and they were on a train less than half an hour later. Lestrade was at the train station, waiting for them. He had someone on the team take Sherlock and John’s bags, insisting he needed them immediately and their bags would be taken to their room.

The case was an insultingly simple murder-homicide.

It took Sherlock seven minutes to solve the case. Seven. Minutes. Even John was confused with why Lestrade called him. Sherlock didn’t see how this helped his situation at all. The only thing slightly pleasurable was the trip to York, where he shared a train car with John. He had to resist jumping across the small car and sitting next to John, pressing himself against his side. But, Sherlock had been able to stare out the window and ignore his impulses.

“Well, we thought we needed you,” Lestrade shrugged, but it was forced. Sherlock’s eyes scanned his body. Lestrade was a decent liar, but not to Sherlock. Did he know the case would be laughably simple? He had to. Lestrade could have solved this himself. Why did Lestrade have a case in York, anyway? Wasn’t that out of his jurisdiction?

Sherlock kept his questions to himself for once, though, because he didn’t want to reveal to John that this was all, allegedly, a plan to help them get together. So, they walked back to the hotel in silence, confused.

“I know the Yard calls you a lot, but this? This was weird,” John said.

“It was,” Sherlock agreed, and didn’t say anything further. The less said about this odd evening the better.

John looked at his phone. “It’s 11:17. Too late for a train?”

“I believe so,” Sherlock said. “The Yard wasted our time, so we might as well take advantage of the money they spent on a room.” Sherlock was actually tired. The dramatic drop in his mood from the boring case along with the other event early that day was too much for him to stay awake on his phone all night. He would have to share a room with John, but he wasn’t a complete imbecile vacant of self-control. He would be able to stay in his own bed and fall asleep eventually.

They got the key to their room from the receptionist and took an elevator up.

“We’ll catch the 6:00 train,” Sherlock told John. “I don’t want to waste any more time here than we have to.”

“I’m fine with that,” John said tiredly, yawning.

Sherlock opened the door and was intent on taking a quick shower and flopping into bed.

Until he saw the bed.

There was one bed in the room. One. One bed.

The gears in his head nearly snapped.

Just as John stepped into the room, Sherlock smiled brightly, falsely. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” He stormed back downstairs to the receptionist. “There is one bed in our room,” he said, accusatory.

The receptionist looked frightened. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Can you put me and my friend in a room with double beds?”

She shook her head nervously. “The whole hotel is booked, sir.”

It was too late to take a train back to London and Sherlock had to _share a bed with John._ Sherlock inhaled sharply. This was Lestrade’s plan: practically locking them in a room and forcing them to touch each other. How the hell was his body not supposed to react if he was sharing a bloody bed with John Watson?!

He whipped out his phone and jabbed the dial button with his thumb.

Lestrade picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Sherlock.”

The idiot sounded so casual. “Why?!”

“Ah, you’ve seen your room.”

“You planned this entire thing,” Sherlock snarled. “The location, the ludicrous case, the room. Everything.”

“I told you I had a plan.”

“I didn’t think it would be something this stupid!” he shouted. He was making a scene. The receptionist must have thought he was insane.

“This is what you two need: being forced into a room until you sort shit out. I’ll admit, this took some maneuvering. I got your brother to help--”

“ _What?”_

“You’ll be fine. Good luck, Sherlock!”

“Wait--”

Lestrade hung up.

Sherlock’s next mission was to kill Lestrade. Then, his brother.

He walked back to their room. When he entered, he heard the shower running. Sherlock took a good look at the room. It was small, the only furniture the bed, bedside table, lamp, and television on the wall. Of course the room didn’t have a sofa or chair. Of course it didn’t. This certainly did have Mycroft written all over it. Sherlock took off his shoes and felt the carpet. The floor wasn’t too hard. He could sleep there.

The shower turned off.

Sherlock was not looking forward to this night.

Two minutes later, John came out of the small bathroom, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, hair wet and sticking up. “Where did you go?” he asked.

“I went to ask if we could have another room, but apparently everything’s full,” Sherlock grumbled.

John took his bag off the bed and dumped it on the floor. “Hm.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “That’s...all you have to say?”

John cocked his head to the side. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, you’re not…” _rushing to defend your heterosexuality and repulsed by the idea of being this close to me?_ That was unfair, Sherlock admitted to himself. John just hugged him mere hours ago, although that was out of fierce emotions that could be attributed to deep friendship. Right?

“Never mind,” Sherlock said, taking his bag. “I’m going to shower.”

He strode into the bathroom, shut the door behind him, and leaned against it, rubbing his face. What he needed to do was find out why John didn’t want a relationship with him. Sharing a bed wouldn’t help him with that. He would just tell John he was going to sleep on the floor. Sherlock washed himself quickly and got into his pajamas. When he entered the bedroom, the lamp was still on and John was lying in bed on his back, eyes closed.

The other side of the bed was so inviting, but so daunting.

Sherlock shut the lamp, plugged his phone into an outlet to charge, and sat on the floor, intending to play with his phone until John fell asleep.

“Sherlock?” John sat up, looking at him with bleary eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m on my phone,” he said.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“It’s comfortable here.”

John reached over and turned on the lamp, staring at him. John’s stare made Sherlock want to squirm. Was this what John felt when he stared at him?

“You’re tired,” John said. “You only stay up when you have a case or experiment." He lay back down. “Get in.”

Damn John’s consideration for his well-being. “Really, John, I’ll be fine. I am tired, true, but I’ve slept on worse surfaces than a hotel floor.”

“Sherlock, it’s not a big deal. Get in the fucking bed. You’ll be insufferable tomorrow if you don’t sleep and you’re not occupied with a case.”

True, again. Sherlock stood reluctantly and walked over to the bed. “Should I turn off the lamp?”

“Do you normally sleep with the lights on?” John opened one eye.

“No.”

“Then turn it off.”

He did. Sherlock got into bed, staying as close to the edge of the mattress as possible, flat on his back and rigid. How was he expected to sleep with his heart beating so hard? He kind of slept next to John before, but it was more of a drunken doze. Completely sober and surrounded by darkness, Sherlock was hyper-aware of the intimacy they were sharing. He could feel the heat from John’s body, making him want to curl against John’s chest. How easy it would be to touch John right now. Sherlock would really just have to move his arm, and his skin would brush against John’s.

“Sherlock?” John asked softly.

“Yes?” He kept staring at the ceiling.

“You’ve never shared a bed before, have you?”

Sherlock pulled the duvet up to his chin. “How do you know?”

“I can feel how tense you are.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly, trying to relax. It didn’t work.

“Just sleep. It’s not hard.”

His fingers clenched the hem of his T-shirt underneath the duvet and sheets. Sherlock never liked the idea of sleeping with someone. During sleep, he was at his most vulnerable. Yes, he trusted John, but he didn’t trust himself not to do something embarrassing in slumber. He had been told by Mummy endearingly (irritatingly) that he talked in his sleep. Knowing his traitorous brain, he probably confessed his love to John in his dreams on a nightly basis.

“I’m not used to this,” Sherlock said to the ceiling.

“I know,” John said sympathetically. “But it’s not like I’m going to smother you with a pillow, if that’s what you’re worried about. Unless you start snoring.”

Sherlock whipped his head to the side to glower at John. “I do _not_.”

John laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’ve fallen asleep in the sitting room before. I’ve heard you.”

Add that to the sleep-talking, and Sherlock figured he must have been the most unappealing bed partner in the world. He turned on his side, back facing John.

“Oh, don’t be that way,” John teased. “Most people do.”

“I’m not most people,” Sherlock muttered reflexively.

“Of course you’re not,” John humored him. A moment of comfortable silence. Sherlock thought he could actually calm down, until John spoke again, “So, uh, you never shared a bed.”

“Correct,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow. Wherever this was going, it wasn’t good.

“That means,” he cleared his throat, “you never spent a night with someone, but that doesn’t mean…” He trailed off.

Sherlock was glad he wasn’t facing John. He never understood John’s curiosity about his sexual experiences. Was it just curiosity, or did he want to know for other reasons?

“John, please.”

“Sorry,” John said quickly. “Sorry. But, you really never, erm, had someone?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, his face hot. _Besides you?_ No, he couldn’t say that, as much as he wanted to. “Why do you want to know?”

The rustle of the blankets indicated John shrugging. “Just asking. You know, as mates.”

Sherlock curled in on himself, knees rising toward his chest. “Is that what we are? ‘Mates’?” he spat the word. The word felt like an insult.

He heard John’s breath hitch. “Of course we are. What else would we be?” John challenged.

That was actually a good question. What were they? They definitely weren’t romantic partners, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if one failed sexual encounter counted as being lovers. But, they were more than friends. They always were.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said honestly. As the conversation went on, he felt less confident, less ready to move forward. “But to satisfy your burning curiosity: no, I have never had a partner in bed in any way, shape, or form.”

“Why?” John asked, and he sounded sad.

Sherlock thought that was ridiculous. If the thought of him being alone made John sad, then he could easily fix that. “Getting attached never ended well for me.” As clearly exhibited by his current heartbreak.

“You don’t have to be attached to have sex with someone,” John pointed out.

“I have no interest in one-offs,” Sherlock said sharply. Too sharply, but he was really getting pushed out of his comfort zone. “The thought of being-- _that way_ with someone--and not getting attached? I don’t believe I’m capable of that.”

The blankets rustled again, and Sherlock guessed John was sitting up. “Wait, really?” he asked.

It dawned upon Sherlock he just confessed he couldn’t be intimate with someone without getting attached, and he was intimate with John. John made the connection. John must have thought he was pathetic. This wasn’t what adult men were supposed to do: they were supposed to have unattached sex, and frequently. At least, the societal convention said so.

“Leave it alone, John.”

“But, Sherlock, wait--”

“Leave it,” Sherlock said angrily. He was angry at himself more than anything for wearing his heart on his sleeve. He felt like over the past several days, he had done nothing but humiliate himself in front of John. He was wrong-footed and he hated it.

“Let’s just sleep,” he said weakly, feeling emotionally exhausted.

Silence, except for John’s heavy breathing. Was John going to push this? Sherlock could have sworn he felt John’s hand hover near his shoulder, about to reach out and touch him.

“Yeah,” John said through a sigh. “I’m sorry. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock often pictured what it would be like to share a bed with John, and played out the different scenarios in his head when he felt particularly lonely. Lying there near the edge of the mattress, heart in his throat, was not one of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be how the boys wake up. Heh.  
> Again: feedback is always welcome!
> 
>  
> 
> ONE MORE THING: thanks for getting this story to 200 kudos!


	7. Bed and Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was NOT expecting the amount of kudos you guys gave me! Thank you! And thank you to those who commented! :)

Sherlock was being slowly tugged into consciousness by his stomach rumbling with hunger. He frowned, trying to ignore it and wanting to stay asleep. His eyelids and limbs felt pleasantly heavy and he was warm, comfortably so, from his head to his toes. He flexed his toes, the sheets soft against his skin. He felt like he was wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and blankets and for once, he had zero desire to leave the bed. There was a solid pressure on his chest and shoulder and his arm was around something, probably pillow, although it was a little hard to be a pillow. But Sherlock didn’t care. He didn’t think he’d ever been this warm. It was lovely. He gave a low, sleepy hum that vibrated in his throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft pillow. Except, now it really didn’t feel like a pillow, and he was on his back, so that wouldn’t have made sense. Sherlock sniffed and smelled shampoo. Something wasn’t right. However, he was only about 20% awake, so he tightened his arm around whatever it was and shifted his body, turning onto his side and slotting his leg in between something, smacking his lips and mumbling sleepy nonsense. Something wrapped around his hips and held him loosely. For a moment, Sherlock was drifting back to full slumber, feeling safe and peaceful.

Something else nestled into the crook of his neck and started huffing hot, damp breaths onto his skin. Then, Sherlock felt pressure against his hips, which made his morning wood perk up. He gave a lazy thrust. It was when another set of hips thrust back that made Sherlock alert. He opened his eyes slowly and was greeted with blond-grey hair. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. Every muscle in his body turned to stone.

_John._

Sherlock looked down and saw John’s head tucked below his chin, face buried in his neck, the sound of his deep breathing filling the silence of the room. Sherlock’s arm was wrapped around John’s back, hand underneath his T-shirt, and John’s arm was wrapped around his hips. One of Sherlock’s legs was in between John’s and, if Sherlock just inched over a little bit or thrust again, their groins would touch. They were cuddling. _They were cuddling._ When did this happen, and how did Sherlock not wake up?

Sherlock forced himself to breathe steadily, fearing any sudden movement would awaken John. John’s hair tickled his nose, so Sherlock turned his face and pressed his cheek against John’s head to avoid a sneeze. He never knew how soft John’s hair was. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The hotel shampoo actually smelled pretty good. He gently rubbed his cheek over the feathery tufts.

He shouldn’t have been doing this. He should have removed himself from John’s loose hold on his hips. But John seemed to be fast asleep, so why not savor the moment? It was already well into the morning. Sherlock didn’t know what time it was, but sunlight filled the room, making the brown carpet appear golden. It must have been at least 9:00. They were supposed to go back to London hours ago.

John sighed in his sleep, rubbed his nose against Sherlock, and settled.

Sherlock gulped.

He never held someone before, or had been held, but he loved it. Not only did he feel protected with a strong arm around him, but he felt like he was protecting John. Sherlock held him a little closer. He would kill to be able to do this every day. He wanted to wake up with all of his limbs tangled with John’s every day, completely covering and shielding him from the world.

The slow rise and fall of John’s chest against his was confirmation that they were both here, alive and well. Their closeness slowly turned Sherlock’s blood hot. A small throb in his groin reminded him of his arousal and he rolled his eyes at his own penis. His damn body wasn’t used to this much contact.

“Stop it,” he whispered harshly to his crotch.

A drawn out “mmm” came from John’s throat.

Sherlock froze.

John stayed asleep, though, and only tightened his hold around Sherlock.

Mini heart attack avoided. For now.

Sherlock wondered if he would ever be able to hold John again. At the rate they were going, it wouldn’t happen for a long time, if ever. Last night’s conversation was mortifying and just too much. Did John seriously not know, at least up until that point, how much their fuck meant to him? Sometimes, Sherlock really didn’t know John thought of him. More specifically, what John thought he was to Sherlock. Sherlock loved him so much he could hardly bear it.

He looked down at John, wanting to make sure he was really out cold. “John?” he whispered.

No response.

Sherlock shifted carefully, craning his neck to look down. John’s eyes were, indeed, still closed and his pink lips were parted. He looked fifteen years younger, all of the tension that normally clouded his face nowhere to be found. Sherlock wished John would look this relaxed more often. Sherlock shifted back a little more to see him better and the sun got caught in John’s hair, making it shine. Sherlock’s heart gave a big _thud._ John was too beautiful. Sherlock pressed his lips against his forehead, so gently it could barely be called a kiss.

He dared to take another risk. His touch feather-light, Sherlock ran his thumb over the soft skin of John’s cheek slowly. This only seemed to further relax John, a long sigh leaving his lips. Sherlock touched John’s jaw and felt the budding stubble, rough to the touch. Sherlock wanted to put his mouth there.

He couldn’t go that far. If he were to kiss John there, he would probably wake up. Plus, Sherlock might not have been able to stop after one stubble-y kiss.

He delicately brushed his thumb over John’s lips. John’s lips unconsciously returned the pressure in a small kiss.

Sherlock drew his hand back, thumb burning where John kissed it.

John gave another low, sleepy moan in his throat, seeming to miss Sherlock’s touch.

Sherlock’s chest was about the burst with affection.

“John,” he breathed.

John remained blissfully asleep.

Sherlock needed to wake John before he let himself kiss him on the lips. Before he did, though, he decided to kiss John’s forehead one last time. He didn’t know why he enjoyed performing such a simple gesture. He thought of kissing John’s hand, his knuckles and fingers, and Sherlock’s heart gave another _thud._ He closed his eyes, every fiber of his being singing with the need to touch John. His lips met with John’s soft skin again.

Maybe it was the remnants of sleep still clinging to him, or maybe it was being this close to John, or a combination of both, that influenced Sherlock to whisper against John’s skin, “I love you.”

Sherlock pulled back. John was definitely asleep, because he would not have sat through the touching and the confession without speaking up.

The distant sound of a baby crying down the hall outside of the room shoved Sherlock back to the real world. They had to leave the bed eventually.  

Time to start the day.

Sherlock was already near the edge of the bed, so he couldn’t scoot out of John’s embrace. He carefully placed his hand on John’s shoulder and tipped him onto his back. John frowned and groaned, rubbing his eyes.

As soon as John wasn’t touching him anymore, Sherlock let him go. “John,” he called softly.

John opened his eyes, blinking three times and rubbing the stubble on his jaw. He yawned and turned his head, looking at Sherlock with puzzled eyes. A couple seconds later, recognition.

“Hey,” John said, voice raspy.

Sherlock was reminded of his partial erection and mentally scolded it again. “Hello,” he greeted, voice equally hoarse from sleep. At their proximity, Sherlock saw John’s pupils dilate.

John grinned and laughed through his nose. “You have pillow lines all over your cheek.”

Sherlock touched his cheek. “That tends to happen.”

John’s grin widened, showing teeth. “God, your hair’s a mess.”

Sherlock pouted. “Are you going to continue making fun of me?”

“I’m not,” John sat up on his elbows. “It’s just--unusual to see you all disheveled. ’S kind of nice.”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, not sure what to say. John’s hair was a little mussed in the front, although that could have been from Sherlock’s face touching it. “Yours is, too.”

John smoothed his hair down.

There was a term for this, Sherlock thought. Pillow talk. They didn’t have sex, but he figured this counted nonetheless. The conversation was getting stiff. He was saved by his growling stomach.

“Hungry?” John asked.

“Clearly. I think we may have overslept.”

“Yeah?” John yawned. “Well, we didn’t set an alarm. It’s okay, though. We don’t have anything to do today, right?”

“Not that I know of.”

Sherlock’s phone chirped a few feet away. Sherlock stumbled out of bed, his back to Jon to hide his slight bulge, and he unplugged his phone charger from the wall. He was right: it was after 9. “It’s 9:07,” he told John.

He had a text from Lestrade and he gripped the phone in anger, hand shaking and erection deflating.

“Is something wrong?” John asked.

“It’s nothing.”

The text said: So, get anywhere? ;)

He used a winking face. Was he fourteen years-old? Sherlock’s lip twitched. He sent a simple, honest reply:

_NO. SH_

He hadn’t been brave enough. At the very end of their horribly uncomfortable conversation, they could have made real progress. He wanted John so fucking badly. Why couldn’t he just take the next step?

He remembered his brother’s involvement in this and sent him a message, as well:

_Why are you so set on interfering with my life? SH_

Sherlock huffed angrily.

John got out of bed. “You sure you’re okay, Sherlock?”

“I’m fine. It’s just my meddling brother.”

“What’s he want?”

“You don’t want to know,” he mumbled. He received a reply.

**Since you could not achieve happiness by yourself, I figured a little push would help. MH**

_It didn’t work. S_

**What? M**

_It. Didn’t. Work! S_

John yawned loudly and scratched his stomach. He grabbed his change of clothes from his bag. “I’m going to use the loo. Then we can get ready to leave soon?”

“Sure,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

A text from Lestrade:

What the fuck?

John went into the bathroom.

Mycroft called Sherlock.

“What do you want?” Sherlock yelped in indignation, which just made him sound like a disgruntled chihuahua.

“How did it not work? We put you in the same bloody bed,” Mycroft sounded genuinely baffled, which hadn’t happened since “Moriarty’s” return.

“I couldn’t do it,” Sherlock admitted shamefully. He was glad Mycroft wasn’t there to see his burning cheeks. He was mindful of John, who was only separated behind the bathroom door. Sherlock’s voice lowered, just above a whisper. “You know nothing of our relationship, or relationships in general.”

“Do you know how much the Detective Inspector and I had to do to arrange this?” Sherlock could picture Mycroft rubbing his eyes.

“Pardon me for not acting according to your expectations,” he said through clenched teeth. He couldn’t get carried away. John would be out in a moment.

“Seriously, Sherlock, why did it go wrong?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, almost sounded like he was pleading, “tell me.”

Sherlock’s fingers twitched. “I couldn’t, Mycroft,” he admitted quietly. “I couldn’t. I have to go. He’s near.”

Sherlock hung up. He couldn’t hear Mycroft pitying him any longer.

Sherlock threw the phone on the bed and it bounded on the mattress. He put his head in his hands and took three deep breaths. He was a constant failure.

John came into the room and took one look at him. “You’re not okay.”

Sherlock’s facade didn’t work with John as well as it used to. “You’re ridiculous.” He walked to his bag, grabbed clothes, and then went to the bathroom door, but was stopped by John’s hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock looked back at him over his shoulder.

John stared at him.

“May I use the loo?” he asked lightly.

John’s mouth twisted to the side, but he nodded.

“Thank you.” Sherlock went into the bathroom. While getting ready, he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired, despite the full night of sleep. Maybe he could sleep on the train. He was sleeping more than usual lately.

After a quick breakfast from the hotel dining room (which actually wasn’t as bad as Sherlock thought it would be), Sherlock and John were on the train for 10:00. They sat across each other in silence. Sherlock leaned his head against the cool window.

He was going to close his eyes, but he saw John texting and smiling at his phone. John didn’t have friends outside of Sherlock, Lestrade, Stamford, and maybe that Murray fellow from the army. He didn’t text those people very often, either, except for Lestrade. John preferred to email Stamford and Murray. Besides, John never smiled like that when talking to a friend, not with that coy smile accompanied by his lower lip bitten. It couldn’t be a friend he was texting.

“John?”

John’s head snapped up, swallowing. Was there a shade of guilt on his face? “Yeah?”

“Who are you texting?”

John pocketed his phone. “A friend. Why?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head.

John’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You’re not texting a friend.”

“And how the hell do you know who I’m texting?”

Anxiety felt likes pins in Sherlock’s stomach. “You’re defensive; that confirms it.”

“Sherlock,” John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, “do me a favor, will you? Shut up.”

Sherlock looked out the window, his lower lip pouting without his knowledge. John might have regretted being harsh, because he bumped his leg against Sherlock’s. A silent apology. Sherlock bumped it back.

John didn’t want him to know who he was talking to. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Who else could John be texting other than a friend? If it had been some business associate, he would have had no problem telling Sherlock. The worst possibility reared its ugly head.

Was John texting a lover?

Sherlock had to investigate. For now, he resisted jumping onto John’s seat, throwing his phone out the window, and smashing their mouths together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait for John's emotional breakdown. Heh.


	8. The Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock must find out who John was texting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm presenting my project about slash tomorrow. Like 12 hours from now. Help me.  
> Thanks again for the kudos and comments :) They always brighten my mood

Sherlock and John were silent for the next thirty-five minutes, stealing glances at each other, the tension thick in the air like soup. Their legs brushed a few times, but neither bothered to move his leg away. John kept looking at his phone, but he looked uncomfortable now. Not just uncomfortable because of Sherlock’s presence, but with the text conversation going on. Eventually, John put his phone away and stopped texting altogether, crossing his arms and looking out the window. Curious.

The sunlight coming in from the window caught in John’s eyelashes, making them glow. Sherlock wanted to feel them under the tip of his finger. He thought about what it would feel like to have John’s eyelashes flutter against the skin of his cheek. Sherlock never wanted to feel someone’s eyelashes before, but at this point, he wanted to touch all of John, every single part.

John glanced at him. He saw Sherlock watching him, and locked their gaze together. Sherlock didn’t look away. John slowly smiled at him. Sherlock smiled back and they shared a small moment of quiet warmth. John rubbed his ankle against Sherlock’s. Sherlock wanted them to be this comfortable with each other every minute. But, the moment was tainted with the anxiety he had over whoever John was texting. His smile must have faltered.

John asked, “You okay?”

“Why do you always ask that?”

John sighed. “Because you seem not-okay a lot.”

_You should know why._ “I’m not not-okay.” John did want Sherlock to be okay, and he knew that, but there must have been a degree of cognitive dissonance going on if John was really unaware of Sherlock’s troubles. Or he couldn’t confront the truth.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” John said.

“I don’t have a lot to say.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” John asserted, “you always have something to say.”

Sherlock smiled again. That was true. “You’re overanalyzing, John.”

“Do you remember Baskerville?” John asked.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Yes. Where did that come from?”

“You acted like you were fine then, too, and you weren’t.”

Sherlock sunk down in his scarf and coat. “I hallucinated,” he reasoned, voice blanketed by his scarf. “You thought you saw the hound and overreacted, too.”

“I know,” John acknowledged easily. “You still had a breakdown in front of that fireplace.”

“You don’t need to remind me. I was there.” Sherlock regretted snapping at John that night, but he truly wasn’t able to handle feeling such intense, insistent fear.

“Sherlock,” John sat up.

Sherlock missed the warmth of his ankle already.

“I’m just saying I have reasons not to always believe you when you say you’re okay. You hid scars from me, for god’s sake.”

Sherlock tensed, almost feeling his scars burn with phantom pains. “John, please stop.”

John sat back and rubbed his eyes. “Christ, I...I feel like I’ve done nothing but fuck up with you lately, Sherlock.”

“You can say that again,” Sherlock muttered and looked out the window.

An audible intake of breath.

Sherlock didn’t look at him. He just wanted John to know how much he fucking loved him. He wanted to yell, shout his love confession to John. That would be disastrous. He stood up.

“Where are you doing?” John asked, getting angry.

“I don’t know. I’ll walk around.”

“You’re seriously going to leave now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said spitefully and stormed off for the duration of the ride home.

They were back at 221B by noon. They felt tired, even though they woke up not long before, and were in rotten moods. Sherlock had to get John’s phone. The future of their relationship depended on it. If John had a lover, then there was no point for Sherlock to try to progress their relationship any further. Sherlock thought part of the reason why John didn’t want him was because of the aftermath with Mary, but if John had someone, then John just didn’t want _him._ That would hurt more than anything else done over the past week.

He had to know.

John knew Sherlock was suspicious, so he was probably going to keep his phone close to him. Sherlock could have waited until John fell asleep and sneak into his room, but that would be risky and it would take too long. Sherlock wanted to know _now._

After unpacking and throwing his bag back into his closet, Sherlock planted himself in his chair and intended on staying there the entire day. The sitting room and kitchen was their shared space, and the most convenient place to snatch John’s phone.

John went up to his room.

Damn. well, he had to come down eventually for food or to use the toilet.

Sherlock had never texted back Lestrade. He figured that he owed Lestrade an explanation of the night/morning’s events, considering that he tried to help Sherlock. Lestrade’s idea really wasn’t an awful one. Sherlock was just an idiot. Sherlock got his phone and typed:

_I appreciate your efforts, but I believe they may have been for naught. SH_

Lestrade texted back a couple of minutes later.

Why? Don’t be cryptic. Can I call you?

_No, John is just upstairs and is bound to hear. John may have found someone else._

Sherlock’s fingers shook as he typed.

WHAT?????????

_Was the caps-lock and multiple question marks necessary?_

YES!!!!

Lestrade’s concern did make Sherlock’s lips twitch into a tiny smile.

Lestrade sent another text: Why do you think that?

_He was smiling as he was texting someone._

...Okay?

_He never smiles when he texts._

He does when he’s texting you.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. _But he wasn’t texting me._

It could be nothing.

_It’s definitely something. I read the signs. You think I, out of all people, read body language incorrectly?_

No… :/

_What is that?_

It’s a half-frowning face.

Sherlock would never understand sending symbols that vaguely looked like faces. Whatever. Back to the point.

_I need to look through his phone._

He wouldn’t like that.

_I don’t care._ Sherlock never cared about privacy. This was too serious to even consider respecting John’s privacy.

Fine, but don’t be surprised if he kicks your arse. Good luck. Keep me updated.

_Thank you.  I will._

Sherlock deleted the text messages. He didn’t think John would try to go through his phone, but better safe than sorry. Sherlock looked at the time on his phone: 12:43. This was going to be a long day.

It took five hours and two minutes, but John came downstairs. “Hey, Sherlock. Hungry?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock grunted.

“I think we still have pizza leftover. Want that?”

“Mmmm.” John was being nice to make up for snapping at him earlier, and perhaps to take Sherlock’s mind off those texts. Nonsense. An earthquake couldn’t distract Sherlock from John’s love life. He stared at John as he got the pizza and put it in the microwave. He saw John’s phone bulging out of his back pocket. Sherlock couldn’t get the phone without groping John. As much as he would love to squeeze John’s arse, now was not the time.

They ate the leftovers as John attempted small talk. Sherlock humored him, figuring acting petulant would do nothing but further darken their moods. After they were done eating, John turned on the television. During commercial breaks, he was on his phone. Sherlock’s pulse spiked. John put the phone on the armrest of his chair forcefully with a scowl, the phone nearly bouncing off the chair and onto the floor.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in question, but John shook his head and turned his attention back to the television.

It wasn’t until evening when John stood from the chair and decided he was going to take a shower. He took his phone with him into the bathroom, but Sherlock wasn’t discouraged. As long as he was quiet, he could sneak in, take a look at his texts, and leave without a trace.

As soon as the water started running, Sherlock got up. His legs were cramped from sitting in the same chair for several hours and he stumbled, knocking into the coffee table.

“You okay out there?” John asked from behind the door.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. He was glad no one saw that.

He went inside his room where he could see John’s silhouette through the semi-transparent door. He could make out John taking off his clothes and disappearing from his view, presumably going into the shower. Sherlock had no idea how he lived with John taking a shower a few feet away from his room. He was honestly surprised he hadn’t stepped into the shower with John by now, pushed him against the wall, and kissed him under a stream of hot water. Maybe he should have. It would have sped things up. John was right there, wet, naked, and rubbing soap all over his body.

_Focus._

Sherlock wrapped his hand around the door handle and slowly turned it, opening the door just enough so he could slide into the room. John was, in fact, in the shower, and appeared not to have heard Sherlock. Sherlock caught sight of John’s pants on the floor and had to stop himself from staring. He looked up and saw John’s phone on the top of the toilet. Sherlock took quiet steps toward the toilet and grabbed the phone.

He opened the text conversations. There were conversations with Lestrade, Stamford, some of the doctors John worked with asking work-related questions, and a number with no contact name at the top of the text application, meaning it was the most recent conversation. Sherlock opened the conversation.

There was only one text, and it was from the other person. It read:

**_John come on! Whats gotten into u? We were fine yesterday ;)_ **

Sherlock stared at the semicolon and colon for a solid thirteen seconds before he realized it was meant to look like a human winking. From what he understood, people put winking faces when they were being flirtatious. He ignored the awful grammar of the message and went into analysis mode. This was clearly the continuation of a previous conversation. If there were no other messages, that meant John must have deleted the conversation thread recently. He must have done it in case of Sherlock. Too bad. It was clear this woman was flirting with John. The only thing that prevented Sherlock’s heart from sinking was the second sentence, _“What’s gotten into you?”_ Did John reject this person?

Still, the idea of John flirting with someone else even for one millisecond filled Sherlock’s veins with boiling jealousy. He gave John away to Mary because he thought she would make him happy. But, if John didn’t want to talk to this person anymore, and this Neanderthal insisted? Sherlock was definitely doing to intervene.

Sherlock had only been in the room for a minute, and John always took between ten to fifteen minutes in the shower. Sherlock had some time. He decided to text this woman back.

_Stop talking to John. SH_

This woman must have been waiting for John’s reply, because she responded almost instantly.

**_What? Is this John?_ **

_Obviously not. SH_

**_Ohhhhh, are u that guy?_ **

Sherlock was intrigued. John mentioned him?

_Who do you think I am? SH_

**_That detective fucker._ **

Okay, then.

_Such language is unnecessary, but yes, I’m a consulting detective. SH_

**_Dont care. Wheres John?_ **

_None of your business. Stop texting him. SH_

**_John was texting me back u know. He can talk to me if he wants._ **

_Yes, but going by your previous message, he isn’t playing along anymore, is he? SH_

**_Well yeah ur right about that. He said we should stop talkin out of nowhere. Did U tell him to stop talkin to me you bastard???????_ **

_No. But you should respect his wishes. SH_

**_Fuck off Sherrinford. Thats why u have SH right?_ **

_It’s ‘Sherlock.’ Sherlock Holmes. SH_

What the hell kind of name was _Sherrinford?_

**_WHATEVER. Stop using SH I know ur name now._ **

Why did John always fancy idiots?

_Stop talking to John. SH_

**_He said u wouldnt like us talking. How bout u leave him alone?_ **

_John is my friend. Do not tell me how to treat my friend. SH_

Even though this person was responding quickly, John would get out of the shower in a few minutes. Sherlock needed to leave, but John would surely notice if he took his phone.

_I’m going to text you from my phone. I’ll just be a moment. SH_

**_Why???_ **

_Will you at least stop texting John until our conversation is over? SH_

**_Fine. It shouldnt take long and this is kinda fun anyway._ **

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His eyes scanned the phone number and he saved it to a temporary folder in his Mind Palace. Sherlock deleted the conversation thread and placed John’s phone back in its original position. He left the room and quietly as he came in. Sherlock got his phone, lay on his bed, and messaged the number.

_Why are you texting John? How did you two even start speaking? SH_

**_Man ur weird. Why do u wanna know? Its none of ur business._ **

_Tell me. SH_

**_We met online._ **

_Online where? SH_

**_Where do u think? A dating site._ **

Sherlock was glad he was lying down or else his legs would have given out. It was true, then. His heartbeat was heavy as stone. John did want someone. Just not Sherlock. A little nagging, hateful, hopeful voice reminded him of John potentially rejecting this woman. He needed to get to the bottom of this.

_John told you about me? SH_

**_Oh yeah. its annoying though. Talks about u more then me._ **

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond. Fortunately, the person sent another message.

**_Why do u care so much bout what he does or who he talks to? Ur not his boyfriend._ **

Salt in the wound.

_John does not want to talk to you anymore, so I am asking that you move on. SH_

**_Man are u jealous??!!?? lololololololol mate that is fucking pathetic_ **

Sherlock didn’t even attempt to decipher what that repetition of letters meant. He was getting tired of this.

_Make all the accusations you want. It’s clear your IQ level is below the national average. SH_

**Right cause ur a genius.**

_I am, in fact. SH_

**Just fuck off.**

There was one more thing Sherlock wanted to know. Did John simply flirt, or did he attempt to actually woo her? Did he send dirty messages or write cheesy romantic texts?

_What did John talk to you about? Did he spout the usual poetry he writes for the rest of his girlfriends? SH_

**_No...but girlfriends??? What? I’m a bloke._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of this shit will lead to fluff in the end. Remember that <3


	9. Darkest Before the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock knows what he has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for getting this story past 300 kudos!!! And thank you to those who wished me luck on my presentation! It actually went really well and I got a 96 :) He hasn't graded my paper yet, but my teacher said I have nothing to worry about.  
> Also, Sherlock cries a bit in this chapter. Because why not.

All of the blood drained from Sherlock’s face and everything went silent. He stared at his phone screen, chest heaving. A man. A man. A man. A _man._ John was talking to a _man._ John started talking to a _man_ from a _dating website._

Sherlock was... _angry._ There was a gaping hole in his chest, and it was now being filled with fire. All of this fucking time, for years, Sherlock thought John was afraid to be with a man because of self-denial about his sexuality, or whatever rubbish he told himself. Apparently not. John did want a male companion, or at the very least, a good fuck. He wanted those things, but not from Sherlock. Why?

Sherlock put his phone on the bedside table. He didn’t want to text this man, this fortunate man, who received John’s attention. He lay there and stared into space, breaths growing heavier as his anger increased. Hot tears escaped his eyes and traveled down his temples, getting caught in his hair. He hadn’t cried up until this point, but he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Not when there was proof, right on his phone, that John could be taken away from him again with another partner. There was proof that it wasn’t that John wanted to be single. John didn’t want him. He kept repeating it in his head. His hands clenched into fists in the fabric of his shirt and shook. His phone vibrated.

**_Sherly? U still there?_ **

He would give one reply.

_Thank you for the information. SH_

Sherlock blocked the number. He didn’t blame this man for his troubles because hadn’t done anything wrong. He was only stupid. Sherlock just didn’t want to continue this painful conversation. He had nothing else to say to the man.

Sherlock wiped the tears away, though they continued to flow, a sob threatening to burst from his throat. Sherlock quickly grabbed his pillow and put it over his mouth, muffling the sob. Then, he started to get angry that he was crying, which only made him cry harder. He sat up, anger rising, and punched the pillow. He was dimly aware of how ridiculous he was. He sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, shoulders heaving and tears rolling down his face. Now, he wanted to know why John didn’t want him. He wasn't going to sit and pine. He had to know. He _needed_ answers _._ He lived his life trying to find answers to every issue possible. He could not ignore this anymore. He was a difficult man to live with. He knew that. But, John always seemed happy with him. Why didn't John want him? Was he that awful? Was he that ugly and repulsive? He got up and looked in the mirror. His face was red and wet with tear-tracks.

He never knew what to think of his physical appearance. Janine was attracted to him, along with some other women from years past, but when he looked in the mirror, Sherlock wasn’t very pleased with what he saw. He didn’t think he was hideous, but he thought his features were a weird jumble. He liked his hair, but that was about it. He stared at himself. His eyes were small, his eyebrows were bushy, and his mouth was oddly shaped, not to mention his ridiculous cheekbones. He had never cared that much about his physical features because he went so long without looking for a partner, but did John think he was ugly? Was that why? Then why the fuck did he kiss him in the first place?!

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He didn’t want to yell at John. He might start yelling eventually, but it would be best to start out calm. He wanted to fix this, not render their relationship past repair. John was a good man. There had to be something Sherlock was missing. It wouldn't have been the first time. Sherlock ran his hand through his curls, doubt beginning to cloud and override his anger.

Was there even a point to finding out? John didn’t want him, and that was what mattered. What ever reason John didn’t want him was probably beyond Sherlock’s control. He couldn’t change his looks, or his personality for John. He tried to be better for John, but that wasn’t the same thing. Should he even bother? If he confronted John and found out there were absolutely zero chance of them getting together, their friendship would be tarnished forever.

The shower turned off.

Sherlock’s head was pounding. He needed to get out of the flat for a few hours. It was freezing, though, and he didn’t feel up to a night wandering around the city. He just needed a place to think and calm down. Sherlock sighed.

He made a phone call.

Mycroft picked up on the first ring. “Sherlock?”

“I need a place to stay for the night,” he admitted lowly, shamefully.

There was silence on the other end of the line, out of shock, Sherlock thought.

“I’ll send a car over right away,” Mycroft said gravely.

“Thank you,” he said. There were times when Sherlock was grateful Mycroft could read his thoughts. This was one of them.

Sherlock hung up and felt like banging his head against the wall. This is how much John broke him down; he needed Mycroft’s assistance. He didn’t bother packing a bag because he would be back by morning, the latest. He walked past the bathroom, put on his coat and shoes, and left the flat. A black car pulled up a minute later.

He leaned his head against the car window during the ride to Mycroft’s house, letting the white noise of the cars passing outside drown out all of his thoughts for a few minutes. He knew Mycroft would ask questions, and he was not in the mood. He wanted space.

He entered Mycroft’s large, cold, pretentious house. His house looked more like a museum, with barely any signs of life--a sharp contrast to the comfort 221B. The hardwood floor and furniture shined, no speck of dust to be found. Mycroft was waiting for him in his ridiculous, black silk pajamas.

Sherlock could have rolled his eyes. “You have guestroom, yes?”

Mycroft was frowning. “Yes. Sherlock--”

“Where is it?”

Mycroft deflated. “Upstairs, second door on your left.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock walked past him and headed upstairs.

“Sherlock,” he called.

Sherlock paused on the stairs. He didn’t look down at him.

“You discovered something,” Mycroft said.

“I did.”

“John will wonder where you went.”

His fingers tightened around the railing. “I know.”

Mycroft let out a small _oh_ of realization. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.

“That doesn’t mean you have no chance.”

“It doesn’t?” Sherlock asked.

“No. Who reads body language better than I?”

“I do,” Sherlock said childishly.

“No, you don’t. Not when it comes to John.”

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.

“May I offer an outsider’s perspective? That man has been in love with you for years.”

Sherlock felt the tears come back. _Not now._ Mycroft was always right, but he couldn’t be this time. “Why is this happening, then?” he asked in a small voice.

“John is a complicated man. You know that. That’s one of his main appeals to you. Talk to him.”

Sherlock squinted, trying to prevent a tear from escaping the corner of his eye. There wasn’t much of a point, though. Mycroft had to have known he was crying. His face burned with mortification. He hadn’t cried in front of Mycroft since Redbeard.

“Don’t let this fall apart,” Mycroft told him. “He's the best thing to ever happen to you.”

Sherlock walked upstairs. He couldn’t listen to Mycroft being concerned for him anymore. It was too much. He went into the guestroom and shut the door. He switched on the light. The room was small and smelled of mothballs. There was a single bed pushed up against the wall, a bureau, a mirror, a lamp, and that was it. Mycroft must not have had guests often. Not a surprise.

Sherlock took off his coat and shoes and lay on the bed.

Confronting John would make or break their relationship, and it would without a doubt be a difficult conversation. But, Sherlock couldn’t go on like this. He loved John so much it physically hurt him.

For a minute, he let himself fantasize. He turned his face in the pillow and nuzzled it, imagining it was John’s chest. He wanted to know what it was like to just lie there with John, not sleeping or fucking, just holding each other, occasionally caressing John’s face, or to have John’s hand in his curls.

Sherlock wanted John to touch him so badly. He could not keep pretending that John was just a good friend, or that being around him didn’t make Sherlock’s heart flutter. He would either fix their relationship or end their friendship. Sherlock shook his head on the stiff pillow. He couldn’t do that. He needed to _mend_ things. He didn’t want to destroy what they had, and he couldn’t live without John. As upset as he was now, he never wanted to go back to his pre-John life. If it weren’t for John, Sherlock was pretty sure he wouldn’t have lived up until this point, either by case-related homicide, or self-destruction.

They needed to talk. He had to make how he felt about John absolutely clear, and get to the bottom of what the hell was going on in John’s head. They needed to be on the same page. God, they were about as emotionally competent as thirteen year-old boys experiencing their first crushes. Sherlock had somewhat of an excuse; he never loved anyone before John, at least not in the romantic sense. But John loved people before Sherlock (if he even loved Sherlock, that is). He must have loved Mary at some point, and Sherlock always wondered about Major Sholto, but thinking about that situation just confused him more. John’s awkwardness didn’t make sense, especially with the knowledge that he was not averse to being with a man.

But no matter what happened, he wouldn’t force himself on John. He wouldn’t, and he couldn’t. He was upset, but even now, John’s happiness was still his top priority. He just wanted to know. If John wanted to throw him out of the flat afterwards, then fine. As long as Sherlock had answers.

His phone vibrated. It was John. Speak of the Devil.

**Hey, where are you? Did you leave?**

Of course he left. Sherlock didn’t answer, wondering if John would pry.

He did.

**Sherlock? Are you okay?**

He didn’t want John to worry about his safety.

_I’m safe._

**Um, okay?**

_What?_

**That was a little cryptic.**

_No, it wasn’t. You asked if I were okay, and I told you I’m safe._

**It’s just an unusual reply. Where are you?**

_In safe hands._

If he told John he was at Mycroft’s, John would definitely know something was wrong. But alas, John wouldn’t take his non-answer.

**Sherlock. Where the fuck are you?**

_It’s none of your concern._

**Yes, it is. If you don’t tell me I'll get Greg to track your phone.**

Stubborn man. _Mycroft’s._

**Your brother’s? Why?**

_I needed to think._

**You couldn’t think at our flat?**

_No. I needed space._

**Space from me?**

Sherlock’s thumb hesitated before sending, _Yes._

Sherlock put his phone on his chest. Last night, he was in bed with John. He should have been braver. No wonder John wanted someone else. Sherlock couldn’t make a commitment.

No, that wasn’t true. He was perfectly capable of committing to John, if he knew for certain John would be with him. Now that he found out John was talking to a man, he wanted to settle this now more than at any other point over the course of this confusing, agonizing week. He was ready to dive into an argument if it meant they would get past this unpleasant place filled with aborted conversations.

The phone vibrated on his chest.

**But why?**

_Don’t be alarmed. I plan on coming back._

**I should bloody well hope so! I’m calling you.**

Sherlock typed _NO_ as quickly as he could.

John called him.

Sherlock let the phone ring. After the call went to voicemail, John texted him:

**Okay. Fine. You don’t want to talk right now. But when you get back, we need to discuss something.**

Sherlock was simultaneously filled with relief and dread (was that possible?). He didn’t know how this would go, but at least John was willing to have a conversation.

_I agree entirely._

**You do?**

_Yes._

**You know what I’m talking about?**

_Possibly. I’ll be back tomorrow morning._

**Okay. Goodnight.**

_Goodnight._

There was a good chance that man texted John and told him about his conversation with Sherlock. Whatever. Sherlock settled under the blankets, which were coarse against his skin. This bed was for more uncomfortable than the one last night in the hotel. This bed must have been used once a year, tops. Sherlock closed his eyes. Sleep may relieve his headache. He felt as if after tomorrow, life would never be the same.

He would be right.

Sherlock woke up at 5:45 in the morning, groggy and disoriented. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and looked around. That’s right: Mycroft’s. He decided there was no point in staying at Mycroft’s any longer. After a few hours of sleep, he wanted to get the conversation done and over with. It was highly unlikely he would find a cab at this hour and he had no money on him, so he knocked on Mycroft’s door.

He heard an irritated groan and feet shuffle to the door. Mycroft opened the door, the corners of his eyes red. “Sherlock, do you know what time it is?”

“Yes. I want to go home.”

Mycroft yawned behind his fist. “Can’t you wait a couple hours?”

“No.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and made a phone call.

Sherlock went back to Baker Street in another black car with a driver who looked like he wanted to kill him. Oh well. Sherlock entered the flat just after 6:00. All of the lights were off. John must have been sleeping. Sherlock wasn’t going to wake him up for the talk. A tired John was a grumpy John.

Sherlock remembered he hadn’t showered the night before. He grimaced. He should fix that. If he stunk of body odor, there would be no chance of being appealing to John, and in that case, Sherlock wouldn’t blame him. Sherlock mentally scolded himself. Why was he still letting himself pretend? It was over.

Right?

He showered quickly and dressed in a T-shirt and pants.  He brushed his teeth. Bad breath wasn't appealing, either. He was awake now and there was no point going back to his room. He went into the sitting room and froze when he saw John in his peripheral vision. He turned around. John was leaning against the wall next to the front door, yawning, and rubbing the morning stubble on his jaw. He must have just came downstairs.  “Sherlock, how long have you been home?” he asked.

He looked at the time on the microwave. “Twenty minutes,” he said. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was,” John nodded sluggishly, sleepily. “I heard you in the shower.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m going to just use the loo. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Okay.”

He heard John brush his teeth and piss. In the meantime, Sherlock’s heart was attempting to jump out of his throat.

John came back and an awkward silence filled the room. They couldn’t let this silence consume them. One of them had to break it.

A nervous kick accompanied Sherlock’s heart beats.

John licked his lips. “Sherlock.”

He braced himself. “Yes, John?”

John struggled to speak, to initiate this essential conversation. Finally, he asked, “Sherlock, did you touch my phone?”

Was _that_ what he wanted to talk about? No matter--it was all related. “Yes,” he answered.

The quick, honest reply threw John off. He swallowed. “Okay. Why?”

Sherlock couldn’t play games anymore. He was too tired. “I wanted to know who you were texting, and why.” He was being one-hundred percent honest. No word play. No being smart. Nothing.

John looked like a deer in headlights. He knew why Sherlock did it. “Oh?” he cleared his throat. “W-why did you want to know?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You know why. You know perfectly well.” Venom was slowly creeping into his voice and he _hated this._ He hated fighting with John, and yet he had a right to be angry. He felt like he had been cheated on, and yet that wasn’t accurate, was it? They weren’t actually together. Why did this have to happen? Hadn’t they been through enough?

“I really don't,” John crossed his arms. “Did you tell him you're my boyfriend?”

“No, why?” Sherlock didn’t remember saying that at all. Maybe he sounded like an angry romantic partner, but...

“He sent me a message last night after you left. He said, ‘Your boyfriend texted me.’”

“I didn’t tell him that,” Sherlock said truthfully. “What did he say after that?”

“That he and I shouldn’t talk anymore. When did you even get my phone?” What interested Sherlock was that John didn’t appear to be embarrassed that he had been talking to, and most likely flirting with, a man. He thought John would have tried to deny it, but he made no attempt. This...honestly confused Sherlock more.

“While you were in the shower.”

John looked too tired to be annoyed. “I see. But if you didn’t say that, then how did he get to that conclusion? What did you say to him?” John asked. He, surprisingly, didn’t appear angry, just uneasy.

“I wanted to know who he was, and he told me you two met on a dating site. He made assumptions, but I don't blame him. He said you talked to him about me a lot.” What person did that, discussed their flatmate to the person they were flirting with?

John looked down at his bare feet. “I won’t deny it. But still, why did you talk to him? Why do you care?”

Sherlock sighed. “John, why do you do this?” He walked to John slowly, eyes locked on him like a big cat, crowding him.

John looked up, hand twitching by his side.

Sherlock was far too attracted to John with stubble. From this distance, he could see all of the prickly blond hairs. That wasn’t important right now. Back to business. “Why do you pretend? You’re a smart man; you can’t be that oblivious. You know, but you don’t want to face it. Why? Do you hate me?” Okay, he was being melodramatic, but that wasn’t anything new.

John’s eyes immediately widened and his jaw dropped. “No! Sherlock, I could never hate you. How could you think that?”

He laughed bitterly. “Oh, I don't know, John.” He took a small step forward and he could feel the heat of his body. John was now pressed against the wall. He stood up straight as he could, standing his ground.

Sherlock wanted to push him against the wall and kiss him. “We’re best friends, and yet how you’ve treated me over the past week would say otherwise. Not only do we act like more than friends, but you…” He had to say this. “You haven’t been kind, either.”

John looked pained, “I know, I’m seeing that now. I’m sorry. I didn’t think this was a big deal to you.”

Sherlock was dumbfounded. “You told me to forget about kissing you, which, I _assure_ you,” his voice lowered to a rumble, “is impossible.”

“Sherlock,” John breathed out, “no, you...I…” His hand came up to touch Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock caught his hand, gently, though. He shook his head. “Please, don't.” He resisted squeezing his hand and kissing his fingers.

John lowered his hand, looking disappointed, and Sherlock let go. John’s eyebrows knitted together tightly, and his breathing was growing ragged. “Why not?”

“Don’t touch me and turn around and act like it never happened. Not again.” He wouldn’t be able to take it.

“Sherlock, you don’t understand--”

“What don’t I understand?” he cut in. “That’s exactly what you did.”

“I know. I--” his shoulders fell, “don’t know what you want, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt like he was on a reality television show. There had to be cameras, surely. John couldn’t have just asked that. “Are you serious?”

“I’m very serious,” John insisted. “I can’t figure you out.”

Sherlock subconsciously leaned in, their faces close and breath mingling. “You can’t figure _me_ out?” he whispered fiercely, the anger coming back.

John’s pupils dilated, his eyes nearly black, and his breathing grew even faster.

Sherlock pressed on, finally stepping past the threshold of no return. “How do you not know how much I want you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole scene was getting pretty long, so I decided to do a sort of To Be Continued. But the next chapter it already in the works :)  
> I PROMISE John will start explaining himself in the next chapter.


	10. Letting It All Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I took a week to update, and I'm sorry. A few days ago, the university I got accepted to called and said they're doing away with my major, so I have to pick a new one. I've been preoccupied with that.  
> Thank you, as always, for the kudos :)

John gulped, lips parting and eyes filled instantly with guilt.

That extinguished some of Sherlock’s anger. Some, not all. “If it were up to me, we would not have stopped in that alleyway. I stopped because of you.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” John countered. “Why didn’t you say you wanted to continue?”

“Because I didn’t think you wanted it!” Sherlock almost exploded. “You said we should just leave the whole incident in the alley.”

“You never say anything! Ever!” John growled, their faces so close their noses almost touched.

“What the hell was I supposed to say after that? You _rejected_ me.”

“Stop it,” John looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose “Stop this.”

“This is what happens,” Sherlock’s voice grew louder. “Right when we start getting somewhere, you shut the whole thing down!”

“So do you!” John yelled, hand waving, and nearly hitting Sherlock due to their proximity. “In bed last night, you told me you can’t do casual flings. I tried to talk to you about it, and know what you did? You told me to stop and leave it alone! What the fuck was I supposed to do, Sherlock?”

“Was I just supposed to spill my heart out only to have you reject it? Better question: how did you not know our fuck--our failed fuck--meant something to me?”

“I thought it was just adrenaline!” They were both shouting now.

“Are you seriously that dense?!”

“You’re the one who said caring isn’t an advantage! You said love is human error, and you’re calling me dense for thinking you just wanted sex?!”

“When have I ever wanted sex in the five years you’ve known me?!”

“Stop!” John huffed a harsh breath. “Sherlock, we’re not getting anywhere.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. His face was hot. He took a few steps back. If he didn’t put distance between them, he would have pushed John against the wall and shoved his tongue in John’s mouth. Not really. John probably wouldn’t appreciate such a bold gesture without any lead-up. He was getting sidetracked.

“We need to talk, not shout,” John said.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He looked at John, whose face was as red as his felt. He wouldn’t have been surprised if their shouting woke Mrs. Hudson. “Why, John? Why did you stop that night?”

John looked exhausted. “I,” he started thickly, then cleared his throat. “I thought it didn’t mean anything to you, and I didn’t want to get in too deep. When that man interrupted, he snapped me out of it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “John, I told you to go back to an assassin who nearly killed me because I thought it would make you happy, and you think I don’t care about you?”

John stood there, looking at the floor, fists clenched.

Sherlock wished he would say something. He would have to speak for both of them. He had to  tell him everything. “I hated her, John. I hated her. Watching you move back in with her hurt more than finding out you were getting married.”

John’s jaw clenched tightly.

Sherlock was on a roll now, everything bottled up inside spilling out in a flood. “When you wanted to take her down, too, I couldn’t be happier. I wanted you away from her, but I wouldn’t do anything unless you wanted to. I wanted to give you a choice in everything.” He swallowed. “I was only the best man at your wedding because I thought you loved Mary, and I didn’t want my desires to interfere with your happiness. I’d already caused you enough grief. Literally.” He still considered the wedding one of the worst days of his life. He went home that night and cried harder than he had in several years, harder than he ever did while being tortured in Serbia. “I hunted down men in Eastern Europe who threatened your safety. All of it was for you, John. Well,” he conceded, “you and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and the good of England, but they were just added factors.” He honestly wasn’t trying to guilt John. He only wanted John to know how much he cared for him, how much he was devoted to him, because something told him John was genuinely unaware, as ludicrous as that was to Sherlock.

John was still silent, save for his heavy breaths coming from his nose.

Sherlock had to voice his feelings aloud now, with no vague language or tip-toeing around it. He found his throat tight and the sting of tears at the back of his eyes. “Everything was for you, and I thought you _finally_ wanted me, too, and you act like we never touched and talk to another man. A _man._ ” Sherlock tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was to no avail. He was hurt, and for the first time, he didn’t feel ashamed about it. “What did I do wrong? Why don’t you want me?” he asked in a small, fragile voice.

And John did something that shook Sherlock to his very core.

John slumped against the wall, covered his eyes with his hand, and started crying.

Sherlock felt like the absolute worst person in the world. He did that. He made John upset enough to cry in front of someone else. The only time John consciously cried in front of him was when he thought they were going to die on the train car. Sherlock knew John cried at his grave, but John hadn’t thought anyone was around. John was a soldier. John buried his emotions, and Sherlock pushed him too far. He did this to him. Sherlock _did this._

The instinct to comfort kicked in. “John, no,” Sherlock rushed to John and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, hugging him as best as he could while John’s hand was still covering his face. “John, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” his voice cracked, and he realized he was crying, too. That was no surprise. John’s pain always affected him profoundly.

“No,” John managed to choke out, wiping his eyes roughly. The tears showed no sign of stopping. Sherlock squeezed him tighter and John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, clinging to him, crying against his chest. “I’m sorry,” John whimpered, losing the battle to keep his voice steady. “I’m so, so sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s tears ran down his face and he let himself release a sob, which may have been a bad idea, because that made John cry harder, his cries turning into sobs. Sherlock’s chest was so tight it felt like it was on the brink of explosion. He couldn’t remember the last time someone held him as he cried, and he was pretty sure he never held anyone as they cried. Sherlock held John close and buried his face in his muscular shoulder, his tears staining the T-shirt beneath his skin. He felt John’s whole body tremble with his cries. Sherlock hated it. He did that. _He_ did that.

“I’m sorry,” John kept repeating, beginning to shake harder in Sherlock’s arms. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”

“No,” Sherlock protested through a cry, shaking his head and then lifting it. “No.”

John lifted his head, looking absolutely wrecked, eyes wet and red, cheeks soaked, and panting, barely holding back his sobs. “It is my fault,” he sniffled, fingers clenching on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I did push you away. You did all of that for me and I still pushed you away and I _hate_ myself for it,” he nearly shouted. “Everything’s my fault,” he started to cry again, ducking his head.

“It’s my fault, too,” Sherlock insisted, blinking away new tears. “I did this--”

“You had every right to say what you did,” John cut him off, looking at Sherlock with an expression contorted with misery. “I hurt you. You had every right,” he repeated. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“I should have talked to you instead of moping around,” insisted Sherlock.

“It doesn’t matter!” John took in harsh, unsteady breaths through his mouth, tears falling from his deep blue eyes. “I can’t believe I did this to you,” he whispered, horrified with himself.

“John, no--”

“All week, you’ve been upset. All week. I knew you were and I didn’t do anything to stop it.” His lower lip started quivering and he bit it hard. “Sherlock, you have to tell me something. Please.”

“Yes?” His throat burned from crying, and the tears were still flowing.

“Did last Saturday night mean something to you?”

“It meant everything,” he confessed, fighting the urge to avert his gaze.

That made John cry more, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. He moved his arms and embraced Sherlock tightly, face in his neck, sobs returning. “I love you,” he confessed in a whisper, voice shattering like glass.

Sherlock’s heart stopped.

“I love you so much and I was such a fucking arse to you, and I’m so fucking sorry--”

His heart kicked itself back to life with enough force to make Sherlock gasp sharply. “I love you too,” he blurted out. “I love you. Of course I love you, not loving you isn’t an option. You love me? You really do?” He was babbling, but he tended to do that when his brain couldn’t process information.

“I do,” John nodded against his chest. John’s breathing was becoming faster to the point where Sherlock thought he might start hyperventilating. How long had John been bottling everything up? _Since I came back,_ Sherlock thought uneasily.

“Breathe, John,” Sherlock murmured in his ear. “Please don’t cry, John. Please.” Sherlock may have been hurt, but he had no right to make John cry.  

“Sorry,” John attempted to wipe away the tears again. “I know it’s--” he sniffled, “uncomfortable.”

“That’s not why I want you to stop crying,” Sherlock said, surprised. “I want you to stop crying because I hate seeing you upset.”

John blinked, a tear falling from each eye, and then his lips curved into a small smile. He sniffed, “Did you say--did you say you loved me?”

“I did. I do,” Sherlock said confidently, nodding once. “You love me?”

“Of _course_ I love you.” He took a hand off Sherlock’s shoulder and it hovered near his face. “Can I touch you?”

Sherlock nodded.

John’s hand gently cupped his face and his thumb stroked the tears away.

Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowing, and the tenderness made his lip quiver.

“It’s all right,” John told him softly, or as softly as he could while he was still half-crying. “It’ll be all right.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. He hesitantly reached out and mirrored what John was doing, placing his large hand on his face and wiping his wet cheeks. John didn’t push him away. In fact, John gave him a genuine smile, and a little laugh through his tears.

Sherlock wanted to kiss his forehead. He liked doing that.

John cleared his throat. “We need to talk. Seriously talk. No more shouting.” His thumb stroked Sherlock’s bottom lip.

Sherlock kissed it, the pain of the week slowly fading. “I feel as if we’re about to have a long conversation,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Can we move away from the wall?”

“Oh, sorry,” Sherlock let him go and stepped back, giving him room.

John was calming down now, breathing slowly returning to normal and the last tears trickling from his eyes. He snorted. “We’re real pieces of work, aren’t we, Sherlock?”

“We are,” he agreed, grinning. He wiped his eyes. “John, I have...questions.”

John nodded. “Fair enough. Can we...get comfortable?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can we sit down, or go to your bedroom?”

John offering to go to his bedroom immediately made Sherlock flush.

John saw it and laughed. “None of that yet. We should get things straight first.”

“I don’t think there’s anything straight about this,” Sherlock said under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

John’s smile grew wide. “Did you seriously make a fucking gay joke?”

Sherlock shrugged, mock-innocent.

John started sniggering, and Sherlock joined him. The joke wasn’t that funny, but the relief that they could still do this, still make each other laugh and get along, made them laugh harder than they had laughed in over a week.

When Sherlock’s laughs subsided, he said, “Yes, we can go to my bedroom.” His heart fluttered in anticipation. John loved him. John loved him. John loved him.

“Sherlock? You in there?”

“Sorry. I love you.”

John snorted. “Your brain still processing?”

“Yes.” John understood him.

John smiled and took his hand. “Sherlock, I love you.”

Sherlock knew at that very moment that he would never tire of hearing John say those words.

John giggled. “God, you get so red.”

Sherlock touched his face, frowning.

John laughed again, but Sherlock knew he wasn’t laughing at him. John squeezed his hand. “Come on.”

They settled on Sherlock’s bed, lying on their sides, facing each other.

“What do you want to know?” John asked.

A part of Sherlock didn’t care anymore because John loved him, but he wanted answers. “There were certain things that happened this week that confused me.”

“Such as?”

“Why were you on a dating website?”

John sighed, eyes on the duvet. “I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted you, always did, but thought I couldn’t have you, or I was afraid to have you. I don’t know, maybe both. But I started talking to Jake--”

 _Stupid name,_ Sherlock thought.

“--in the middle of the week because--I don’t know why. I’m a mess. But then on the way home, the way you looked at me…” John trailed off.

Sherlock waited patiently for him to continue.

“I felt guilty,” John’s eyes darted up to meet his. “You knew I was flirting with someone. I was stupid to think I could hide anything from you. It was the look on your face, Sherlock, that made me realize how much of a shite I was being.”

Sherlock had tried to school his facial expressions, but apparently, that didn’t work. But it was better that way, if this was the outcome.

“I told him to stop texting me that afternoon,” John told him.

“That makes sense,” Sherlock said. He remembered the text: _John come on! What’s gotten into you? We were fine yesterday._ That text must have been in response to John cutting things off.

“I wasn’t planning to really get anywhere with him,” John admitted. “Like I said, I just didn’t know what the fuck I wanted. I wanted you, but didn’t know if I could have you, especially after leaving you in that cold alleyway and...I was a dick to him, too, wasn’t I?”

“He was an idiot,” Sherlock said. “Just, why a man?”

“Why not?” John asked.

“You never seemed interested before.”

“I hadn’t been with a man since the army, true, but that doesn’t mean I’m straight.”

The army. “Sholto,” Sherlock said.

John’s lips tightened. “What about him?”

“Was there anything there?”

John rolled onto his back and sighed. “Yes.”

Sherlock had to tread lightly. This clearly wasn’t a comfortable subject. “But it stopped after everything happened with him?”

“Yes. He was caught up in the midst of controversy, and I got shot. After that it just...ended.”

Sherlock could see John, shot, alone, and wondering why Sholto wasn’t returning his calls. Sherlock did feel for Sholto, especially at the wedding, but he hurt John and never made it right. “Did you love him?” Sherlock asked softly.

“No,” John said, turning his face to look at Sherlock. “I don’t think so. There was affection and admiration, but not love.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock asked, feeling the smallest twinge of jealousy.

John gave him a crooked smile. “’Cause I love you, and I didn’t feel this for him.”

Sherlock beamed.

John laughed heartily. “Is this going to be your response every time I say I love you? Because this is pretty adorable.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, and he didn’t know how to respond. “Um…”

John pinched his pink cheek and Sherlock playfully smacked his hand away. John turned back on his side, smiling fondly. “Sholto is in the past. You don’t have to worry.”

“I believe you,” Sherlock said. There was something else bothering him. “I thought I made it clear I wanted you. You did know. I would bring it up at times, albeit vaguely, and you knew what I was referring to.”

John frowned. “Everything you said in the past about love and sentiment was always in the back of my head, but there was something else that held me back.”

Sherlock could practically feel John getting tense. He put his hand over John’s quickly. He didn’t want John to shut down again.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve hurt you,” John’s hand clenched under Sherlock’s. Suddenly, he moved his hand and reached for the hem of Sherlock’s T-shirt. Before Sherlock could question it, John lifted his shirt up and placed his hand over the scar from Mary. His thumb ran over the rough bit of skin, and his jaw tightened.

“She nearly killed you. She wanted to kill and and was never sorry and never fucking cared. And  like a fucking twat, I went back to her.”

“Only for a week,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I shouldn’t have went back at all,” John said firmly. He held Sherlock’s side. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize anymore.”

“Yes, I do,” he said sternly, almost angrily. “I’m sorry I didn’t see everything you did for me. You loved me and you let me go back to her without a fight.” His grip tightened on Sherlock. “All of this came to a head this past week and I couldn’t forgive myself. I couldn’t forgive myself for everything, and in the process I just fucking hurt you more. I--” he looked into Sherlock’s eyes, “I don’t deserve you.”

Sherlock could not have John self-deprecating anymore. Sherlock thought of his feelings all week, but it was clear now that John had been hurting badly. He had been consumed with guilt and fear. John may have never loved Sholto, but he cared for him deeply enough to be happy as a puppy when Sholto showed up at his wedding. John must have feared Sherlock would drop him like Sholto did, even if he wouldn’t admit it to Sherlock or himself. Add that to John not being over the whole Mary fiasco, and everything finally fell into place.

Sherlock moved in the short distance between them and kissed John on the lips. The kiss was short, sweet, and Sherlock kept their lips close when he pulled back. “Please, John, I understand now. The idea that you are not worthy of me is utterly false.” John giggled, and the sound was so joyful Sherlock had to kiss him again. “If anything,” Sherlock said after a couple quick kisses, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t talk like that,” John scolded him. “You sell yourself short.”

“I think this conversation may become cyclical.”

“Probably,” John agreed. “Is there anything else you want to know at this very moment?”

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said. “If anything else comes to mind, I’ll tell you.”

“Good,” John curled his warm hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Sherlock said quickly, almost desperately.

John kissed him gently, lips soft and warm. He kept his lips still until Sherlock shyly returned the pressure. It was all quick and dark in the alley, but in the morning on Sherlock’s bed, with daylight streaming through the window, everything was new, better, and a little daunting. They moved their lips slowly, savoring each sensation, their hunger building. John cradled the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers stroking the curls at the back of his neck. Sherlock opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, putting his hands on John’s broad chest, clutching his T-shirt.

John opened his mouth and tentatively traced his tongue over Sherlock’s lower lip.

Sherlock hadn’t expected that and tensed, but then started kissing John deeper, and as best as he knew how.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “we did it wrong last time.”

“Hm?” Sherlock hummed, eyes closed, still trying to kiss him.

John smiled into the kiss and Sherlock felt it. He tried to kiss John’s smile and John laughed quietly, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled back with a tiny _smack_. “You were saying?”

“I said we did it wrong last time.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. John’s face was so close. “We did.”

John’s eyes lowered to Sherlock’s nose, and he nuzzled it gently.

Sherlock blushed hard. He always knew John was a sexual man, but the simple acts of affection were unexpected and overwhelming. The fact John wanted to be affectionate with him just added to Sherlock’s joy. He nuzzled back.

“Let’s do it right this time,” John murmured, breath warm against Sherlock’s lips and smelling of toothpaste. He kissed Sherlock tenderly, and pulled back with eyes so soft they made Sherlock’s heart thump. “Let me make love to you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY GONNA HAVE SEX


	11. Finally, Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get it on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I wrote for this story and it's basically a drawn-out sex scene :P

Sherlock shivered, fingers clenched so tightly around John’s T-shirt that his hands shook. Last week, they fucked. Now, John wanted to make love to him. Sherlock had always thought that term was ridiculous, but he understood it now. He understood every damned cliché about love that used to make him scoff and roll his eyes. After a long week of doubting John’s love for him, he needed reassurance. “Please,” his voice quivered. “Yes, John, please.”

John grasped his chin and kissed him, slowly but hungrily, his other hand gripping Sherlock’s hip. He lightly sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip, keeping his mouth closed at first. Sherlock realized he’d tensed up, and relaxed. This wasn’t a sensation he was used to, but John would take care of him; there was no reason to be uneasy. John’s tongue lightly traced his lip, and then he then took Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking it harder. Sherlock involuntarily moaned, his cock twitching. It was so warm. He took control and kissed John, open-mouthed, and licked past John’s lips and-- _oh_ , that was _really_ warm.

Sherlock moaned again and moved his body closer, wanting to press against John. He didn’t put his tongue all the way in John’s mouth--he wasn’t sure if John would like that--and he switched back to long, wet kisses, both of their lips wet with saliva. Sherlock cupped John’s  jaw, rough with stubble, and he broke their kiss suddenly.

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sher--?”

Sherlock kissed jaw, moving his lips over the short, prickly hairs. The rough hairs brushing his soft lips sent tingles down his spine, and made his cock press against his pants. His mouth latched onto John’s jawline, right by his ear, and sucked. John groaned quietly, grip tightening on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock was so happy that he could do this, kiss and suck John, and have the privilege to hear the sounds that fell from his lips. He found himself getting carried away, licking John’s stubble, feeling the texture on his tongue, and biting his jaw.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, and slotted their hips together, bucking his growing erection against Sherlock’s. The touch of John’s clothed dick against his took Sherlock’s breath away, and John used it as an opportunity to roll them over and pin Sherlock on his back, legs straddling his narrow hips, a smug smile on John’s face.

Sherlock pouted, “I wasn’t finished.”

Sunlight now filled the majority of the room, and with John on top of him, it shined and highlighted his blond hair. Sherlock swallowed.

John’s smile softened, and he stroked Sherlock’s face from his cheek to his pouting bottom lip. “I know. Just--let me have you, okay? I want to show you how much I love you.”

Sherlock’s lips parted and his brow creased. He didn’t know what to say. His chest felt full, not tight with pain like before, just very full. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John leaned down and kissed him firmly on the lips. His hand smoothed Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead and he kissed the side of Sherlock’s neck, lips warm on his skin, and mouth opening to suck. Sherlock closed his eyes, a groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck,” John cursed against his skin, “do that again.”

“Hmmm?” Sherlock inquired, not fully hearing him.

John thrust his hips against Sherlock’s. “God, I can feel your voice. It’s so fucking hot.” His lips were back on Sherlock’s skin in an instant, sucking harder, fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock gasped. John didn’t pull too hard, but it still hurt a little, and yet it made his cock jump. “John,” he moaned, breathing heavily. They were just getting started, and already his entire body was hot, his nipples were peaked, and he was hard. John bit his neck and he almost choked on a moan, hips thrusting up to meet John’s. “John!”

John rocked his hips and sucked Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, fingers clenching in his curls. Sherlock let out a particularly long moan and John lifted his head, eyes dark. “Take off your clothes,” he rasped out.

Sherlock undressed as quickly as possible, as did John, and when Sherlock settled back down, his mouth watered at the sight before him. He never saw John fully naked before. He saw John’s muscular torso a few days ago, but Sherlock still found himself staring at the dusting of golden hair over his toned chest. His eyes traveled down John’s body, taking in his V-line, trail of pubic hair, and large, hardening cock. His cock was slightly above average length, yet thicker than most British men’s.

John chuckled lowly, “Like what you see?”

Sherlock was going to retort with _Obviously,_ but zero sound came out.

John’s hands smoothed down Sherlock’s sides, looking over his naked form. Sherlock wanted to close his legs, try to hide his erection, but then John sighed, almost dreamily.

“You’re so beautiful,” he gazed up at Sherlock’s eyes. “A living work of art.”

Heat spread from the tips of Sherlock’s ears to his chest, painting his skin red.

“You blush down to your chest,” John licked his lips. He leaned down and bit Sherlock’s collarbone, making Sherlock inhale sharply. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he murmured against his skin. His hands continued to rub Sherlock’s skin sensually as his wet lips moved down Sherlock’s chest, stopping to lick a hard nipple.

Electricity jolted through Sherlock’s body and his back arched. He did not expect that to feel so intense. “John, I--!”

John’s mouth closed around his nipple and Sherlock’s words melted away into a loud moan. He licked the hard nub, slowly rotating it on his tongue, sucking it, and then blew on it. Sherlock’s nipples were tingling and John’s hands were near his thighs now, stroking slowly and getting closer to his prick. He was fully hard and he felt the first bead of precome drip from his slit. His eyes opened widely. “John, I think-- _ah_ \--I’m not going to--”

John pulled off and Sherlock was glad he didn’t have to say it aloud. This was kind of humiliating. He was a grown man; he was supposed to last long.

John was breathing heavily through his open mouth. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Everything,” he said quickly. “All the way.”

“Are you sure?” John raised an eyebrow. “We can do other things and it would still be going all the way in my book. We could just hump each other for all I care. I don't want you to do something you don't really want.”

Suddenly, Sherlock felt the urge to smile. “I know that, John,” he said softly. “But, I…” His skin burned with his blush. He could say this. John wouldn't laugh. “I want to be as physically close to you as possible. Please, we could experiment with other things later. We’ve been apart too long.”

John bit his lip, cock twitching. “Okay, yeah. I want to try something,” he said, voice low. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said confidently.

“Okay,” John rubbed his thighs soothingly. “You can stop me anytime you want. Remember that.” He got off Sherlock and sat on his knees. “Turn onto your stomach.”

Sherlock did, feeling self-conscious with his bare arse on display. His arms went under his pillow and he hugged it, anxiety fluttering in his stomach. He would have been more at ease if he could have seen John. If he got too uncomfortable, he'd tell him.

John grabbed Sherlock’s other pillow. “Lift up for a second.”

Sherlock did, and John shoved the pillow beneath Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock whimpered when his aching cock slid against the pillow. “John, whatever you’re doing, hurry up.”

John snorted. “Bossy.” His warm hands were back on Sherlock's sides, settling at his hips, but now Sherlock felt something warm and wet touch the back of his sack.

He gasped and thrust against the pillow, then groaned in frustration.

“You can move,” John said from behind him. “Just don't come yet, okay?”

“O-okay,” Sherlock said feebly.

John’s tongue found his sack again, licking down slowly, lapping at the back of his testicles. Sherlock gulped, almost hiccuping in surprise when John briefly drew on one of Sherlock's balls into his mouth and lightly sucked.

Sherlock’s teeth clamped down on his lip hard and he grunted. _Fuck,_ that was good. His whole body broke out in a sweat, from his damp curls to his clenching toes. John mouthed at his balls, then pressed his tongue against his perineum and slid up to his crack.

Sherlock's head shot up. No, John wasn't going to _that_ , was he?

John’s hands grasped his cheeks and spread them apart, and Sherlock felt his hole clench reflexively against the cool air. He bit his lip harder, feeling utterly exposed. He squirmed. “John?”

“Stop me anytime,” John whispered, and then his mouth was on Sherlock, tongue circling around his entrance. All of the breath rushed from Sherlock's lungs and his eyes widened. John’s tongue pressed against his entrance, and smoothly slid inside of him. Sherlock's eyes rolled back, and he buried his loud moan in his pillow, hips bucking. It was the most intense sensation he ever felt. John licked inside of him, thrusting his hot tongue in and out, sliding against Sherlock's inner walls, and each thrust sent a spike of pleasure to Sherlock's cock. Sherlock was moaning beyond his control into the pillow and trying to grind as best as he could against the pillow beneath his hips, but the friction wasn't enough. He tried humping but John was _too much_ and the stupid fucking pillow was too little. His cock was pulsing and begging for a better touch.

He whined, “John, more.”

John hummed and _fuck_ Sherlock felt the vibration. Sherlock bit his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and desperately trying to fuck the pillow under him, his cock leaking steadily.

John lifted his head and Sherlock whimpered in protest.

“Lube?” John asked.

Sherlock forced himself to think. “Top drawer of bedside table.”

John got the bottle and Sherlock felt something cooler, slicker, and more solid slide slowly into him.

 _Finger,_ Sherlock’s mind supplied belatedly. He closed his eyes. It didn’t feel as intense as the finger, but it was still good, although there was a slight twinge of pain. John’s mouth opened him up fairly well, though, because the pain went away in a short moment and dissolved into pure pleasure. John’s finger rotated inside him, getting him used to the feeling. He needed _more._

“More, John,” he said.

John’s middle finger worked inside of him, his fingers spreading apart, stretching Sherlock. His thick fingers hit his walls better than his tongue did. Sherlock was so hard he was going to scream. His insides were on fire. His hips squirmed and rolled his hips into the pillow, grunting with each breath. “Please, John,” he babbled, “it feels so good. Come on, John, please, I need more. I need... _god!_ ”

John’s fingers touched his prostate and Sherlock’s head shot up with a sharp, painful gasp. “John! Oh god, please. John, am I ready?” _Please say yes please say yes please say yes_

John removed his fingers. “I think so,” he replied huskily. “You have condoms?”

Sherlock lifted his head, and he realized he’d been drooling on the pillow. He wiped his mouth. “Same drawer as lube, in the corner. _Please_ hurry.”

John opened the drawer and got a condom. “Turn onto your back, Sherlock. I want to see you.”

Sherlock flipped onto his back as fast as possible, his hard cock bobbing against his stomach. He was far too aroused to be embarrassed by how red and hard his cock was, or how much precome was dripping from the slit.

John’s pupils were blown wide, his eyes black, and face red. He licked his lips and rolled on a condom. “Why do you have these?” he asked.

“Can we talk later?” Sherlock nearly snapped.

John smirked. “Okay, okay.” He adjusted the pillow under Sherlock so his hips were lined up with John’s groin. He placed his hands down next to Sherlock’s head, hovering over his body, and he pressed his cock against Sherlock’s hole. For a small moment, they looked into each other’s eyes. Sherlock nodded.

John pushed his cock inside of Sherlock. John’s mouth dropped open and his eyes squeezed shut, a low moan coming from deep in his chest. Sherlock’s hands gripped John’s biceps and his legs wound around his waist, needing something to anchor him to reality. He tossed his head to the side and moaned out of his open mouth, unable to hold back, feeling completely full. John’s prick was completely inside of him, pressing against his inner walls.

 _“John,”_ his chest heaved and he looked back at him. “John!”

“Sherlock,” John panted, lowering himself on his elbows, and the change in angle made them groan. “My Sherlock,” John murmured into his throat, rocking his hips.

Sherlock gasped at the movement. “Keep going,” he choked out. It had been a good idea for John to use his mouth first--Sherlock only felt slight discomfort. John knew what he was doing. Of course he did. Perfect John.

John started to pull out and rocked back in, grunting into Sherlock’s collarbone. He thrust slowly, but hard, setting up a rhythm with deep strokes that made Sherlock whimper every time John thrust back into him. His arms curled around John’s shoulders, hugging him, legs squeezing him closer to his body, their chests brushing together. They were close as could be at this angle. John pressed wet kisses to his throat and collarbone, which felt good, but Sherlock was getting overwhelmed.

“John,” Sherlock said breathlessly, “come up here, I want to-- _uh!--_ see you, please.”

John pushed himself up enough to look at Sherlock. “I’m here,” he breathed. “I’m right here, Sherlock.”  He groaned and his eyes rolled back, but he snapped his gaze back to Sherlock. “I promise I’ll always be here.” The angle allowed John to thrust deeper, making John huff and grunt with every thrust. He gripped Sherlock’s hips and drove into him in earnest, his hips snapping, the force of his movements rocking Sherlock’s body on the bed.

Sherlock was moaning loudly, although he barely registered the sound of his own voice, or the fact that his whole body moved up with John’s thrusts. His cock was absolutely _aching,_ and he feared that touching it would make this end too soon. He was in heaven, his mind blank and pleasure filling him with fire, and beautiful John was making this happen, making him feel good.

Then, John hit his prostate.

“John!” He threw his head back, legs squeezing so hard around John his thighs shook. His fingernails dug into John’s shoulders and his breath left his lips in high whimpers.

“There it is,” John said, voice like gravel, and hit the spot again, and again, and again, pleasure shooting through Sherlock’s body, heat in his abdomen and groin. John drove into him particularly hard and Sherlock shouted, cock quivering. It felt like every time John thrust into his prostate, it burst and filled his body with tingles.

“You have no idea how fucking sexy you are,” John growled, moving faster. He leaned down and bit the side of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock held John closer, needing to hold him, and needing to be held. His throat was getting scratchy from moaning and whimpering, yet he was blissfully unaware. He craned his neck to give John better access, and John’s stubble ran against his neck. Sherlock held John’s head close, “John, oh _fuck,_ John!”

“It’s okay. You’re doing so well, Sherlock,” he kissed his cheekbone. “You’re okay.”

Sherlock was on the brink of tears. He didn’t know how John knew he needed that, but he was grateful.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered into his ear. “We could have been doing this all along if it weren’t for me.” He hid his face in his neck. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock struggled to speak, close to coming. “D-don’t be,” he said shakily. He bit his lip with a raspy groan. He didn’t know if he could come untouched but he didn’t want to find out now. It was getting unbearable. “Oh god, _please_ touch me, please.”

John lifted himself up and took Sherlock’s cock in hand, and Sherlock nearly sobbed with relief. John stroked him in time with his quick thrusts, and he looked at Sherlock with awe, like he was a precious gem. Were his eyes filling with tears? Sherlock was too far gone to tell.

“Come for me, Sherlock,” he said through a harsh breath, on the brink of climax, himself. “Please, Sherlock, come for me.”

The look on John’s face, the desperation in his tone, and his hand on him, broke Sherlock. With two more thrusts and strokes, Sherlock’s eyes grew huge, his mouth dropped open, and he felt it, his orgasm finally taking over him, his balls tightening, sharp pleasure blooming throughout his groin, and he came hard, cock spurting. He tried to say John’s name, but only a strangled moan left his lips, brain completely disconnected. He felt it _everywhere,_ his cock, balls, arse, nipples, and his fingers and toes clenched as tightly as they could.

As his walls clamped around John, Sherlock heard him gasp and cry out his name. Sherlock realized he had closed his eyes and snapped them open, wanting to see John’s orgasm. John’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open in a perfect O, and Sherlock felt him come with a sharp snap of his hips and a loud, long, deep groan.

Sherlock watched him, mesmerized, panting, lips wet and red.

John’s arms shook and he sat up, pulling himself out and lowering Sherlock’s trembling legs onto the mattress. He removed the condom and threw it somewhere on the floor. He collapsed on the bed with a tired moan, looking at Sherlock with glassy eyes.

Sherlock looked at him. He had no energy to say anything. His body felt like pudding. He wanted to touch John, though.

John smiled. “Hey. You okay?”

Sherlock nodded, catching his breath. “You--” he cleared his throat. “You’ll have to pick that up later.”

“The key word is ‘later.’” John brushed his sweaty curls away from his face. “I'll be right back, I promise.”

Sherlock curled up on his side and closed his eyes, humming. He curled into a ball. He wanted to hug John. That was his first time, and he really needed comfort. Not that he was upset, just in need of human contact. He had always thought that, if he were to have sex, he would be emotionally shaken afterwards. However, he simply felt tired and in need of a hug. Maybe it was because he knew John loved him, and everything would be all right.

Sherlock opened his eyes when John climbed back onto the bed with a wet flannel.

“Let me?” he offered.

Sherlock was confused, but then realized John was talking about the mess on his stomach and chest. He straightened his spine and John wiped off his sticky release.

Sherlock flushed. That was courteous. “Thank you,” he said meekly.

John smiled and kissed his cheek. He finished wiping Sherlock and threw the flannel over his shoulder.

“We'll have to pick that up eventually, too,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I'm too tired to get back up,” he said and settled on his back, holding out his arms. “C’mere.”

Sherlock moved over and slumped on top of John, breathing in the scent of sweat and the musk of sex. He rubbed his nose on John’s good shoulder, grinning when John’s hand stroked from his neck to his hips. He liked this. The skin-on-skin contact had him squirming happily.

He folded his hands atop John’s chest and rested his chin upon them. “John, I want to kiss you.”

“You’re allowed,” John closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

“But,” Sherlock placed a long finger on his lips, “I really don't want to taste my own arse.”

John threw his head back with a loud guffaw.

Sherlock’s body bounced as John’s chest moved with laughter. “Well, I don't,” he giggled.

John’s laughter quieted down. “I used mouthwash while I was in the bathroom.”

“Good,” he said and pressed his lips softly on John’s, and they shared a lazy, long, sleepy kiss. Sherlock felt...free. There was no more pain hanging over them. He could kiss John whenever he wanted, now. Their chests were pressed together, hearts beating in sync. Sherlock sighed happily. In a way, this felt more intimate than anything they had just done.

John cupped his cheek, smiling fondly. “I don’t think I've ever seen you this relaxed.”

“I'm happy,” he said, and it was true. He was absolutely happy, happier than he had ever been.

John beamed at him. “Yeah? I'm glad. I am, too.”

Sherlock turned his face and kissed his palm. He held John’s hand and kissed the fingers, loving the sensation of John laughing beneath him.

“You’re an utter sap, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Only for you, John Watson,” he murmured into the top of John’s hand and kissed it.

John brushed his sweaty curls away from his forehead. “I meant what I said. I could have saved us a lot of pain.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You act as if I've been innocent.”

John frowned, guilt creeping up on his features. “But this week--”

“John,” Sherlock fixed him a stern stare. “I understand now. You explained yourself, and I completely forgive you.” He squeezed John’s hand. “It’s in the past.”

John squeezed his arm around Sherlock. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Sherlock wiggled his toes. “I’m merely rational.” They spent a few moments staring at each other with small smiles, John rubbing his back and Sherlock rubbing his hand. The steady motion of John’s hand made Sherlock yawn, his eyelids heavy. He was already tired from a restless night and sex, and the cuddling wasn’t helping. He was getting a little chilly as the sweat cooled on his skin.

“Hold on,” he sat up on his elbows and grabbed the sheet and duvet. John got the idea and lifted off the bed long enough for Sherlock to pull the blankets down. Sherlock climbed back on John and pulled the blankets over them. He put his head down on the pillow next to John’s, right near the crook of his neck. He flung his arm over John’s chest and let out a peaceful rumble.

John kissed his forehead. “Tired?” He looked at the clock on the bedside table. “God, it’s only 6:43.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and flung his leg over John’s hip. “I hate being awake this early. I hate mornings,” he grumbled.

“You’re a night owl, I know,” John buried his face in Sherlock’s curls, inhaling deeply. He put his arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him closer to his body. Sherlock kissed his shoulder, yawning.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you have condoms and lube?”

“Your fascination with my sex life will never cease, will it?”

“Shut up,” John pinched his side and Sherlock yelped.  “I’m just curious about the condoms if you hadn’t had sex before.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. It was just in case I changed my mind. You don’t want to know how old that box is.”

John laughed. “Okay, fair enough.”

“Why did you want to use a condom, anyway? We’re both clean.”

“Did you want come dripping out of your arse?”

Sherlock grimaced. “No.”

“Well, there you go.” He rolled onto his side, keeping his arm around Sherlock and their legs tangled. Their faces were inches apart on the pillow, so close that as soon as Sherlock puckered his lips, they touched John’s. He kissed John slowly and softly, feeling exhaustion truly pulling him under as his eyes were closed. He felt John smile.

“What?” Sherlock asked, eyes still closed.

“You’re tired.” He pressed feather-light kisses to his eyelids.

He furrowed his brow and kissed him again. “So are you. And I want to keep kissing,” he mumbled between chaste kisses.

John indulged him for a couple more minutes, the slide of their lips lazy and growing increasingly uncoordinated. Sherlock was really tired now, because his mind starting to wander. Through a cloud of thoughts one presented itself and Sherlock pulled his head back.

“You’re not curious about the half-empty bottle of lubricant?”

John broke into giggles. “Nothing gets by you. I know you masturbate.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “How?”

“Uh,” John cleared his throat, clearly trying not to laugh. “Sherlock, I don’t think you realize how loud you are.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flared. “Oh. Was I loud a few minutes ago?”

“Honestly? Yes.” John kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s all right. I think it’s pretty fucking hot, actually.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “Oh. Well, I’m glad.” He yawned and rubbed his eye with his knuckle. He shuffled down and nestled his head under John’s chin, hugging him tightly and closing his eyes. _Mine. Mine. Mine._

John petted his hair. Sherlock heard him yawn, and the idea of a morning nap was sounding more appealing by the second. The movement of John’s hand slowed as his breathing grew deeper. John was falling asleep and Sherlock loved that he could feel it. He pressed his face into John’s neck, his skin warm on his cheek. This was absolutely wonderful. He didn't know how the hell he lived before being with John. He didn't think he could live without this now. That wasn't going to happen, right? He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but wanted to hear it.

“John?"

“Mmm?” he hummed drowsily. 

"This is...permanent, yes?"

John's breathing changed. He grabbed his chin and lifted his face, their eyes meeting. The look on John's face was fierce. "Sherlock, listen to me carefully. I spent years wanting you, and now that I have you, I'm not giving this up. Not on my bloody life. I want to be with you, Sherlock, and no matter how much we'll piss each other off, I won't leave you. Got it?"

Sherlock beamed, his heart dancing. "Got it."

John grinned and kissed his brow. "Good." 

Sherlock slotted his face in between John's neck and shoulder again, and John returned to stroking his hair. As quiet minutes passed, John’s hand slowed until it stopped petting Sherlock entirely, his hand cradling his head to his chest. Sherlock heard John breathe deeply, and felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He was asleep. Sherlock felt like his veins were filled with sunshine. It was the most peaceful morning he ever had, being in John’s arms with the distant sound of London traffic serving as white noise and John’s gentle breathing rushing over the shell of his ear. Finally, Sherlock let himself give in to sleep. John wouldn’t leave. They were going to nap in his bed for however long they wanted, and the best part of it was? This was only the beginning of thousands of sleepy morning cuddles to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STAY TUNED for the even fluffier epilogue :) I figured you guys deserve one more chapter of fluff after reading through like 25,000 words of angst


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lifetime of happiness ahead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hit me as I'm typing this that the story is over! I'm actually pretty sad about that. More notes at the end.  
> THANK YOU FOR GETTING THIS TO 400 KUDOS!

Sherlock was on edge.

Things with John had been wonderful, absolutely, mind-blowingly wonderful. Three months, one week, and three days passed since they finally got on the same page and made love, and during that time, John was tender, kissing him, holding him, having sex almost every day. The morning they had sex for the first time, Sherlock woke up in John’s arms, and his heart nearly burst that, yes, it was real, it wasn’t a dream, and this was his life now. John had kissed his forehead and whispered, “Hey, gorgeous. Good sleep?”

Sherlock was going to respond, but then Mrs. Hudson came in without knocking. After red faces and embarrassed stammers and quick fumbles to get dressed, she hugged them both, tearing up.

Sherlock had figured he should have also informed Lestrade, since he did try to help push them together.

He had sent a text: _You’ll be pleased to know John and I have entered a romantic relationship. Thank you. SH_

Lestrade had arrived at their flat with a bottle of champagne an hour later.

After he left, John looked at Sherlock and asked, “You really asked for Greg’s help?”

He shrugged, cheeks coloring, “I was at a loss. I needed assistance.”

John had hugged him tightly. “You asked for help for me. You really do love me.”

Sherlock had giggled into John’s shoulder. “His plan didn’t work very well, though.”

“No,” he’d said, “but truth be told, I was really close to fucking you in that bed.”

Sherlock laughed, and all felt well.

But, Sherlock noticed something as time went on. When John thought he wasn’t looking, he looked troubled. Over the past couple weeks, John sat deep in thought in his chair, brow wrinkled, sometimes with his laptop. When he noticed Sherlock, he would force his expression to change to be happy and friendly, but Sherlock knew better. He tried to check the search history on John’s laptop, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. John must have deleted anything suspicious. People were also smiling at him more--Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and some officers at the yard. At first, he thought they were just happy for him and John, but that would have worn off quickly, and their warm, slightly coy smiles only increased with time.

He had decided to observe John when they were together, but overall, he seemed normal. He didn’t think John was going to break up with him after three months, especially since he promised that wouldn’t happen, ever, which confused Sherlock more. (But, what if a relationship with Sherlock wasn’t as good as John had imagined it? What if John thought they weren’t a perfect match?)

He knew something was on John’s mind, and he had no idea what it was. But, then he remembered this is what happened before. They didn’t talk, and it only led to pain. They couldn’t do that anymore. No more secrets. No more silence. No more ambiguity.

It was well past midnight and they were in bed, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets and tangled limbs. Sherlock was spooning John, which happened less often than the other way around. Sherlock loved being held by John, being cradled in his strong arms and having his hair stroked. He loved it, and needed it, and yet he loved holding John just as much. John needed comfort and protection as much as he did, and Sherlock was happy to provide. His chest was pressed against John’s back, arms wrapped around his middle, and body curved to fit around John’s, like a shrimp. He inhaled John’s hair, sniffing the faint scent of his cheap shampoo.

John, himself, was deeply asleep. Sherlock couldn’t see John’s face, but he could feel the rise and fall of his back, and the vibrations of his soft snores. Sherlock squeezed him. He loved him. He needed to be sure they were okay. He kissed the nape of John’s neck, tasting his sleep-warm skin and thin layer of sweat. He held John closer, pressing gentle kisses to his shoulders. The past three months were the best of his life, and he couldn’t go back to life before, he just couldn’t--

John grunted. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock was instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re squeezing me too hard,” he said, voice rough.

Sherlock brought his arms to his sides. “I’m sorry.”

John turned over with a yawn. “You didn’t have to let go.” He blinked blearily in the moonlight. “You okay?”

_What are you hiding?_ “I can’t sleep.”

“Why not?” he asked through another yawn, blinking rapidly.

His stupid, irrational insecurities were keeping John awake. “I’m thinking. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm, no, tell me what’s wrong.” John forced his eyes open. “I don’t like when you don’t sleep.”

Sherlock cursed inwardly. He couldn’t tell John what was bothering him, because he could just be paranoid and sound like an idiot. _No,_ he reminded himself, _no repeats of before. You must talk._ Should he wait until morning? His focus shifted back to John, and he saw his eyes closed. Sherlock wrapped his arms back around him, gathering John to his chest. “You’re half-asleep,” he murmured. “I’ll tell you later.”

John whined and shook his head. “No, tell me. Somethin’s botherin’ you. I can feel it. You’re tense.”

Sherlock relaxed his muscles. “Happy?”

“No,” he tried to glare at Sherlock, but wound up looking like an adorable, sleepy, grumpy child.

The sight tugged at Sherlock’s heart strings. He brushed John’s growing hair away from his forehead. He liked it this length, not too long, but longer than his military cut. “You’re tired. Go back to sleep, John. It’s really nothing terribly worrisome--” _LIE_ “--so there is no need for you to be concerned.”

John seemed like he really wanted to continue the conversation, but his eyelids were drooping closed. “Fine," he gave up. "Try to sleep. Love you.” He tucked his head under Sherlock’s chin and settled, exhaling deeply.

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head. “Love you, too,” he mumbled into his soft hair. He held John in the night, listening to his soft snores, and eventually dropped off to sleep at five in the morning.

* * *

 

Sherlock awoke and didn’t feel John in his arms. He reached out his right hand, and met cool sheets. He opened his eyes and saw he was alone in their room. He started to panic, until he saw the clock. It was noon. John liked having a lie-in, but at this point, he was probably having lunch. Sherlock sat up, yawning and stretching. He thought of their brief conversation, and wondered if John remembered it. He had been pretty tired. Even if he didn’t remember, Sherlock needed to talk to John. _No more misunderstandings,_ he repeated in his head as he put on his red dressing gown absentmindedly. He walked into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He brushed his teeth with his right hand, his dominant hand, and briefly brought his left hand up to scratch his face. Something shiny caught his eye in the mirror. Toothbrush still in mouth, Sherlock’s eyebrows wrinkled and he looked down at his left hand.

There was a ring.

Sherlock held out his hand and spread his fingers. That wasn’t there before. The ring was shiny, clearly new, and fit him perfectly. It was a simple piece of jewelry, bright white gold without any intricate design. He took the ring off and looked at the inside. The inside was just as clean as the outside, so it hadn’t been worn before. He put it back on his finger. He didn’t own a ring. How did it get there? He didn’t have it last night. The only person who could have put it on him this morning was John--

Sherlock’s jaw dropped and the toothbrush fell out of his mouth, clattering in the sink. He heard his heartbeat. John put a ring on his left hand. That only meant one thing, right? He went through his mind, trying to remember if a ring on the ring finger of the left hand meant anything else, but he came up blank. It could only mean one thing!

Sherlock burst out of the bathroom into the kitchen and saw John sitting at the table, fully dressed, and sipping tea. John tried to appear indifferent, but the quirk of his lips gave him away.

“Good afternoon. Sleep well?”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything. His lips couldn’t even move. Was he shaking?

John broke and a huge smile graced his face, and he giggled, standing up and grabbing a napkin. He walked over to Sherlock. “You have toothpaste running down your chin,” he informed him, wiping Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock closed his mouth. Yes, he did still taste it, now that John mentioned it. He must have been staring into space, because he blinked and John was offering him a glass of water. Sherlock took it, fingers shaking, and rinsed his mouth, spitting into the sink. He placed the glass on the counter and turned to John, who was still smiling wildly.

John knew why he was acting like this. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a joke. He really wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. Sherlock found his voice. “You.” He looked down at the ring. “You put this one me.”

“I did,” said John, walking over to him, hands in his pockets. “I didn’t plan on doing it this way,” he confessed, “but I didn’t know I’d worry you so much, either. This morning, you were talking in your sleep."

Sherlock blushed lightly. John thought his sleep-talking was the most adorable thing in the world. Sherlock did not. They didn't really use terms of endearment, but apparently, Sherlock made up for it in his sleep. According to John, Sherlock had called him  _darling, precious,_ and  _my love_ in his sleep. The only thing that kept Sherlock from spontaneously combusting was the kiss John would always give him after.

John frowned. "You were asking me if something was wrong with us, our relationship. I should have known you would notice something was going on. I decided to squash any doubts you had as soon as you woke up and,” he nodded at the ring, “here we are.”

“You were picking out a ring,” Sherlock said, putting the pieces together. “You were making a decision, but not that one.”

“What did you think I was doing?”

Sherlock looked down at his hand again, and he felt very stupid for what he thought before. “Well, I may have briefly thought you were going to terminate our relationship.”

John was stunned, then shook his head. “No, Sherlock, no. You thought that I’d do that, after how great everything’s been?”

The shock started to fade and Sherlock began to smile slowly. “Now I don’t think so.”

John took his hands and squeezed them. “You need to get this through that thick skull of yours: I love you.”

Sherlock felt laughter bubbling in his chest. He pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. “John, you haven’t actually asked me anything.”

John was holding back joyful laughter, too. He dropped on one knee, still holding Sherlock’s hands, and looked up at him with sparkling eyes. He asked, as clearly as possible, “Sherlock Holmes, will you do the honor of marrying me?”

Sherlock was smiling so hard it hurt, and his eyes grew warm with tears. He saved the image of John proposing to his Mind Palace, and he planned on visiting the saved image every night before bed. This was his reality. John Hamish Watson loved him enough to want to bind them together, forever, and in the eyes of the law. “Yes,” he said breathlessly, heart pounding.

John pulled himself to his feet and their lips met, but they were smiling and laughing too much to actually kiss. John cupped his cheeks and giggled against his lips.

“You’re going to be my husband,” Sherlock said slowly, testing the _H_ word out on his tongue.

“I will be,” John said, kissing the corner of his mouth. He rubbed their noses together giddily, and Sherlock loved seeing him so happy. _He_ made John that happy.

John wiped his tears away. “I really, really love you,” he said sincerely, looking into his eyes.

“I really, really love you, too,” Sherlock said softly. He looked down at the ring again. He couldn’t wait to have everyone see the ring and ask him about it. He would tell everyone, even strangers on the street, that he belonged to John Hamish Watson.

He remembered the looks other people gave him over the past few weeks. “Did you tell other people about this?”

“I did,” John said. “I asked Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and your brother if they thought it was a good idea, and they all said yes. Then, Greg spread the word around, and pretty much the whole Yard knows.”

Sherlock was glad. “Why did you ask people?”

“We’ve only been together for three months, and I was worried I was rushing.”

“We’ve had five years to get to know each other. We waited long enough.”

The corner of John’s mouth lifted. “True.”

“What was your original plan?”

“To propose? Well,” he cleared his throat, “I hadn’t thought of anything yet. I kept second-guessing every plan I came up with.”

“Anything would have been perfect,” Sherlock said honestly.

John grabbed his left hand. “You’re sweet.” He kissed his ring finger.

“It’s true,” he said. “I do like what you chose to go with, though.”

“I knew something was wrong last night,” John said, frowning. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so worried?”

“I was going to,” Sherlock defended himself. “I was going to come out here and tell you, but I got distracted,” he wiggled his finger.

“Well, good. No more secrets, right?”

“Right,” Sherlock nodded. Everything was still sinking in. A little over three months ago, they were miserable. Everything had changed, and yet in a way, everything stayed the same. They were always married, in a sense, weren’t they? He wanted to be close to John, but wasn’t in the mood for sex (yet). He needed everything to settle in his mind before he was overwhelmed with touch. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we lie down for awhile? We can have sex later, I promise, but now I--”

John cut him off with a kiss. “We can do whatever you like, Sherlock.”

A few minutes later, they were sprawled out on the sofa, Sherlock with his face smushed (comfortably) in John’s chest, and John’s fingers in his hair. John’s heart was under his ear. Sherlock kissed the spot. “Will we both wear rings?”

John played with one of Sherlock’s curls, twisting it. “I want to, but what if we lose them on a case?”

“It’s worth it. I want rings.”

“Okay,” John said into his hair.

“When can we have the wedding?”

“Whenever you want,” John said, and Sherlock felt the vibrations of his voice under his ear.

“I don’t want a large, extravagant ceremony. It should be nice, but...cozy.”

“I agree,” said John. “Especially after my first, large, disastrous wedding.”

It was the first time thinking of John’s wedding didn’t stab Sherlock’s chest. “Ours will be much better,” he said confidently.

“Bet your arse it will,” muttered John, and Sherlock grinned. “We’ll have the best damned wedding in the country.”

Sherlock kissed John’s collarbone. Their groins were close, and he was starting to get a little aroused. He thought about his ring finger entering John. His cocked jumped. Yes, he definitely wanted to try that.

“I should call people,” John said. “They’d want to know we’re officially engaged.”

“Later,” Sherlock said, slowly grinding his hips.

John gave a surprised moan. “You’re a bad man,” he looked down at Sherlock with a wicked grin.

“I am,” Sherlock said, rubbing his growing erection against John’s. “But, you chose to propose.”

“Then what’s that say about me?” John started to grind back, slowly wrapping his legs around him.

“That you’re even worse and we’re perfectly matched?” Sherlock rolled his hips in a circle.

“Bingo,” John said whispered, and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, bringing his head down to lock their lips together.

One day, soon, John was going to declare his love for Sherlock in front of their friends and family, and Sherlock would declare his love for John. There was zero doubt in Sherlock’s mind: John loved him. They were going to grow old together and retire one day. But for now, Sherlock kissed John, cupping his face, the ring cool against his fiancé’s skin. (They were fiancés!)

It took years of pain and misunderstanding, but now they had decades of love ahead. It was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for sappy endings!  
> I seriously had a lot of fun writing this story, and I want to thank all of you for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos <3  
> I have a couple prompts to write (that probably won't go on AO3), but after that I have no idea what to do!  
> Any suggestions?


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